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GRACE  AND   PHILIP  WHARTON,   cp^cucd.a 


AUTHORS   OF    "  THK   OIIEENS   OF   SOCIIiTY. 


H^l  TH  IL  L  US  TRA  TIONS. 


VOL.    1 


PHILADHLPHIA: 
PORTER    &    COATES. 


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V.    1 

PREFACE  TO  THE  SECOND  EDITION. 


a 


Ui 


In  revising  this  publication,  it  has  scarcely  been 
found  necessary  to  recall  a  single  opinion  relative  to 
the  subject  of  the  Work.  The  general  impressions  of 
X  characters  adopted  by  the  Authors  have  received  little 
modification  from  any  remarks  elicited  by  the  appear- 
ance of  "The  Wits  and  Beaux  of  Society." 

It  is  scarcely  to  be  expected  that  even  our  descend- 
ants -will  know  much  more  of  the  Wits  and  Beaux  of 
former  days  than  v,c  now  do.  The  chests  at  Straw- 
berry Hill  are  cleared  of  their  contents ;  Horace  Wal- 
pole's  latest  letters  are  before  us ;  Pepys  and  Evelyn 
have  thoroughly  dramatized  the  days  of  Charles  II. ; 
Lord  Ilervey's  Memoirs  have  laid  bare  the  darkest 
secrets  of  the  Court  in  which  he  figures ;  voluminous 
memoirs  of  the  less  historic  characters  among  the  Wits 
and  Beaux  have  been  published  ;  still  it  is  possible  that 
some  long-disregarded  treasury  of  old  letters,  like  that 
in  the  Gallery  at  Wotton,  may  come  to  light.  From 
that  precious  deposit  a  housemaid — blotted  for  ever  be 
her  name  from  memory's  page — was  purloining  sheets 
of  yellow  paper,  with  antiquated  writing  on  them,  to 


473791 


4  PREFACE  TO  THE  SECOND  EDITION. 

light  her  fires  with,  when  the  late  William  Upcott  came 
to  the  rescue,  and  saved  Evelyn's  "  Diary  "  for  a  grate- 
ful world.  It  is  just  possible  that  such  a  discovery  may 
again  be  made,  and  that  the  doings  of  George  Villiers, 
or  the  exile  life  of  Wharton,  or  the  inmost  thoughts  of 
other  Wits  and  Beaux  may  be  made  to  appear  in  clearer 
lights  than  heretofore ;  but  it  is  much  more  likely  that 
the  popular  opinions  about  these  witty,  Avorthless  men 
are  substantially  true. 

All  that  has  been  collected,  therefore,  to  form  this 
work — and,  as  in  the  "  Queens  of  Society,"  every 
known  source  has  been  consulted — assumes  a  sterling; 
value  as  being  collected ;  and,  should  hereafter  fresh 
materials  be  disinterred  from  any  old  library  closet  in 
the  homes  of  some  one  descendant  of  our  heroes,  ad- 
vantage will  be  gladly  taken  to  improve,  correct,  and 
complete  the  lives. 

One  thing  must,  in  justice,  be  said :  if  they  have 
been  Avritten  freely,  fearlessly,  they  have  been  written 
without  passion  or  prejudice.  The  writers,  though  not 
quite  of  the  stamp  of  persons  who  would  never  have 
"dared  to  address"  any  of  the  subjects  of  their 
biography,  "  save  with  courtesy  and  obeisance,"  have 
no  wish  to  "  trample  on  the  graves  "  of  such  very  amus- 
ing personages  as  the  "Wits  and  Beaux  of  Society." 
They  have  even  l)een  lenient  to  their  memory'-,  h;iil- 
ing  every  good  trait  gladly,  ami  pointing  out  with 
no  unsparing  hand  redeeming  virtues;  and  it  cannot 
certainly  be  said,  in   this  instance,  that  tlie  good  has 


PREFACE  TO  THE  SECOND  EDITION.  5 

been  "interred  Avitli  the  bones"  of  tlie  personages 
herein  described,  although  the  evil  men  do  "will  live 
after  them." 

But  whilst  a  biographer  is  bound  to  give  the  fair  as 
well  as  the  dark  side  of  his  subject,  he  has  still  to 
remember  that  biography  is  a  trust,  and  that  it  should 
not  be  an  culogium.  It  is  his  duty  to  reflect  that  in 
many  instances  it  must  be  regarded  even  as  a  warning. 

The  moral  conclusions  of  these  lives  of  "  AVits  and 
Beaux"  are,  it  is  admitted,  just:  vice  is  censured; 
folly  rebuked ;  ungentlemanly  conduct,  even  in  a  beau 
of  the  highest  polish,  exposed  ;  irreligion  finds  no  toler- 
ation under  gentle  names — heartlessness  no  palliation 
from  its  being  the  way  of  the  world.  There  is  here  no 
separate  code  allowed  for  men  who  live  in  the  world, 
and  for  those  who  live  out  of  it.  The  task  of  portray- 
ing such  characters  as  the  "  Wits  and  Beaux  of  Society  " 
is  a  responsible  one,  and  does  not  involve  the  mere  at- 
tempt to  amuse,  or  the  mere  desire  to  abuse,  but  requires 
truth  and  discrimination;  as  embracing  just  or  unjust 
views  of  such  characters,  it  may  do  much  harm  or 
much  good.  Nevertheless,  in  spite  of  these  obvious 
considerations,  there  do  exist  worthy  persons,  even  in 
the  present  day,  so  unreasonable  as  to  take  offence  at 
the  revival  of  old  stories  anent  their  defunct  grand- 
fathers, though  those  very  stories  were  circulated  liy 
accredited  writers  employed  by  the  families  themselves. 
Some  individuals  are  scandalized  when  a  man  who  was 
habitually  drunk,  is  called  a  drunkard ;  and  ears  polite 


6  PKEFACE  TO  THE  SECOND   EDITION. 

cannot  bear  the  application  of  plain  names  to  ^vell- 
known  delinquencies. 

There  is  something  foolish,  but  respectably  foolish, 
in  this  wish  to  shut  out  light  -which  has  been  streaming 
for  years  over  these  old  tombs  and  memories.  The 
flowers  that  are  cast  on  such  graves  cannot,  however, 
cause  us  to  forget  the  corruption  within  and  under- 
neath. In  consideration,  nevertheless,  of  a  pardon- 
able weakness,  all  expressions  that  can  give  pain,  or 
which  have  been  said  to  give  pain,  have  been,  in  this 
Second  Edition,  omitted ;  and  whenever  a  mis-state- 
ment has  crept  in,  care  has  been  taken  to  amend  the 
error. 


PREFACE  TO  THE  FIRST  EDITION. 


The  success  of  the  "  Queens  of  Society  "  will  have 
pioneered  the  way  for  the  "  Wits  and  Beaux  :  "  with 
whom,  during  tlie  lioliday  time  of  their  lives,  these 
fair  ladies  were  so  greatly  associated.  The  "Queens," 
whether  all  wits  or  not,  must  have  been  the  cause  of 
wit  in  others ;  their  influence  over  dandyism  is  noto- 
rious :  their  power  to  make  or  mar  a  man  of  fashion, 
almost  historical.  So  far,  a  chronicle  of  the  sayings 
and  doings  of  tlic  "Wits"  is  worthy  to  serve  as  a 
pendant  to  that  of  the  "Queens:"  happy  would  it 
be  for  society  if  tlie  annals  of  the  former  could  more 
closely  resemble  the  biography  of  the  latter.  But  it 
may  not  be  so:  men  are  subject  to  temptations,  to 
failures,  to  delinquencies,  to  calamities,  of  which  women 
can  scarcely  dream,  and  which  they  can  only  lament 
and  pity. 

Our  "  Wits,"  too — to  separate  them  from  the 
"Beaux" — Avere  men  who  often  took  an  active  part 
in  the  stirring  events  of  their  day  :  they  assumed  to  be 
statesmen,  though,  too  fre(][uently,  they  were  only  ]>uli- 

7 


8  PREFACE  TO  THE  FIRST   EDITION. 

ticians.  They  were  brave  and  loyal :  indeed,  in  the 
time  of  the  Stuarts,  all  the  Wits  were  Cavaliers,  as 
well  as  the  Beaux.  One  hears  of  no  repartee  among 
Cromwell's  followers  ;  no  dash,  no  merriment,  in  Fair- 
fax's staff;  eloquence,  indeed,  but  no  wit  in  the  Par- 
liamentarians ;  and,  in  truth,  in  the  second  Charles's 
time,  the  kino;  mio;ht  have  headed  the  lists  of  the  Wits 
himself — such  a  capital  man  as  his  Majesty  is  known 
to  have  been  for  a  wet  evening  or  a  dull  Sunday ;  such 
a  famous  teller  of  a  story — such  a  perfect  diner-out :  no 
wonder  that  in  his  reign  we  had  George  Villiers,  second 
Duke  of  Buckingham  of  that  family,  "  mankind's  epit- 
ome," who  had  every  pretension  to  every  accomplish- 
ment combined  in  himself.  No  wonder  we  could 
attract  De  Grammont  and  Saint  Evremond  to  our 
court ;  and  own,  somewhat  to  our  discredit  be  it 
allowed,  Rochester  and  Beau  Fielding.  Every  reign 
has  had  its  wits,  but  those  in  Charles's  time  were  so 
numerous  as  to  distinguish  the  era  by  an  especial 
brilliancy.  Nor  let  it  be  supposed  that  these  annals 
do  not  contain  a  moral  application.  They  show  how 
little  the  sparkling  attributes  herein  portrayed  con- 
ferred happiness ;  how  far  more  the  rare,  though  cer- 
tainly real  touches  of  genuine  feeling  and  strong  affec- 
tion, which  appear  here  and  there  even  in  the  lives  of 
the  most  thoughtless  "Wits  and  Beaux,"  elevate  tlie 
character  in  youth,  or  console  the  spirit  in  age.  They 
prove  how  wise  has  been  tliat  change  in  society  which 
now  repudiates  the  "Wit"  as  a  distinct  class;  and  re- 


rHEPWCE  TO  THE  FIRST   EDITION.  9 

quires  general  intelligence  as  a  compensation  for  lost 
repartees,  or  long  obsolete  practical  jokes. 

"Men  are  not  ail  evil:"  so  in  the  life  of  Georrre 
Villiers,  Ave  find  liiin  kind-hearted,  and  free  from 
hypocrisy.  His  old  servants — and  the  fact  speaks 
in  extenuation  of  one  of  our  wildest  Wits  and  Beaux 
— loved  hiia  faithfully.  De  Grammont,  we  all  own, 
has  little  to  redeem  him  except  his  good  nature : 
Rochester's  latest  days  were  almost  hallowed  by  his 
penitence.  Chesterfield  is  saved  by  his  kindness  to 
the  Irish,  and  his  affection  for  his  son.  Horace  "Wal- 
pole  had  human  affections,  though  a  most  inhuman 
pen :  and  Wharton  was  famous  for  his  good-humor. 

The  periods  most  abounding  in  the  Wit  and  the  Beau 
have,  of  course,  been  those  most  exempt  from  wars, 
and  rumors  of  wars.  The  Restoration ;  tlie  early 
period  of  the  Augustan  age ;  the  commencement  of 
the  Hanoverian  dynasty, — have  all  been  enlivened  by 
Wits  and  Beaux,  who  came  to  light  like  mushrooms 
after  a  storm  of  rain,  as  soon  as  the  jjolitical  horizon 
was  clear.  We  have  Congreve,  who  affected  to  be 
the  Beau  as  well  as  the  Wit ;  Lord  Hervev,  more 
of  the  courtier  than  the  Beau — a  Wit  by  inheritance 
— a  peer,  assisted  into  a  pre-eminent  position  by  royal 
preference,  and  consequent  prestige  ;  and  all  these  men 
■were  the  offspring  of  the  particular  state  of  the  times 
ill  which  they  figured :  at  earlier  periods,  they  would 
have  been  deemed  effeminate  ;    in  later  ones,  absurd. 

Then  the  scene  shifts  :  intellect  had  marched  forward 


10  PREFACE  TO  THE  FIRST  EDITION. 

gigantically :  the  "world  is  growing  exacting,  disputa- 
tious, critical,  and  such  men  as  Horace  Walpole  and 
Brinsley  Sheridan  appear ;  the  characteristics  of  "svit 
which  adorned  that  age  being  well  diluted  by  the 
feebler  talents  of  Selwyn  and  Hook. 

Of  these,  and  others,  '•'table  traits,''  and  other  traits, 
are  here  given :  brief  chronicles  of  tJteir  life's  stage, 
over  which  a  curtain  has  so  long  been  dropped,  are 
supplied  carefully  from  well-established  sources :  it  is 
with  characters,  not  with  literary  history,  that  we 
deal ;  and  do  our  best  to  make  tlie  portraitures  life- 
like, and  to  bring  forward  old  memories,  which,  Avith- 
out  the  stamp  of  antiquity,  might  be  suffered  to  pass 
into  obscurity. 

Your  Wit  and  your  Beau,  be  he  French  or  English, 
is  no  medieval  personage :  the  aristocracy  of  the  pres- 
ent day  rank  among  his  immediate  descendants :  he  is 
a  creature  of  a  modern  and  an  artificial  age;  and  with 
his  career  are  mingled  many  features  of  civilized  life, 
manners,  habits,  and  traces  of  family  history  Avhich  are 
still,  it  is  believed,  interesting  to  the  xnajority  of  Eng- 
lish readers,  as  they  have  long  been  to 

Grace  and  Piiilip  Wharton. 

October,  1S60. 


CONTEiSTTS. 


GEORGE  VILLIERS,  SECOND   DUKE   OF   BUCK- 
INGHAM. 

Signs  of  the  Eestoration. — Samuel  Pepys  in  his  Glory. — Who  wa.s 
Samuel  TVpys?— A  Koyal  Company.— Pepys  "  ready  to  Weep." 
— Tlie  I'laymate  of  Cliarlcs  II. — George  \illiers.— George  Vil- 
liei-s's  Inheritance. — Two  Gallant  Young  Noblemen. — Murder 
of  Francis  ^'iUiers.— After  (he  Battle  of  Worcester.— Boscohel. 
— At  the  White-Ladies.— Disguising  the  King. — Villiers  in 
Hiding. — He  appeal's  as  a  Mountebank. — Buckingham's  Hab- 
its.— He  .sees  his  Sister.— Cromwell's  Saintly  Daughter. — In 
love  with  a  Mountebank. — Villiers  and  the  Babbi. — The  Buck- 
ingham Pictures  and  Estates. — York  House. — Villiers  returns 
to  England. — Poor  Mary  Fairfax. — York  House  Sold.— Vil- 
liers in  tiic  Tower. — Aljraham  Cowley,  the  Poet. — Cowley  and 
\'illiers.— The  (Jreatest  Ornament  of  Whitehall. — Bucking- 
ham's Wit  and  Beauty. — Flecknoe's  Opinion. — The  Countess 
of  Shrew.sbury.  — Duel  with  the  Earl  of  Shrew.sbury. — Villiers 
as  a  Poet. — Asa  Dramatist. — A  Fearful  Censure! — Villiers's 
Inlhience  in  Parliament. — A  Scene  in  the  Lords. — The  Cabal. 
—The  Duke  of  Orn)ond  in  Danger. — Rochester's  Epigram. — 
Wallingford  House.— Ham  House. — "Madame  Ellen." — The 
('al)al. — N'illiers  again  in  the  Tower. — A  Change. — Nearing  the 
End.— The  Duke  of  York's  Theatre.— The  Duchess  of  Buck- 
ingham Leaves. — Villiers  and  the  Princes,s  of  Orange. — Vil- 
liens's  Last  llour.s. — Death  of  Villiers. — Ducliess  of  Bucking- 
ham  Page  19 

COUNT    DE  GRAMMONT,   ST.   EVREMOND,   AND 
LORD   ROCHESTER. 

The  Church  or  the  Army? — De  finimmont's  Choice. — His  Influence 
with  Turcnne. — An  Adventure  at  Lyons. — A  lirilliant  Idea. — 
Gambling  upon  Credit. — De  ( i  ranmiont's  (lenerosity. — A  Hoi-se 

11 


12  CONTENTS. 

"for  the  Cards." — Knight-Cicisbeism. — De  Grammont's  First 
Love. — His  Witty  Attacks  on  Mazarin. — De  Grammont's  In- 
dependence.— Anne  Lucie  de  la  Motlie  Houdancourt. — Beset 
with  Snares. — X)e  Grammont's  Visits  to  Enghind. — Charles  II. 
— Life  at  Whitehall. — Court  of  Charles  II. — Introduction  of 
Country  Dances. — Norman  Peculiarities. —  St.  Evremond,  the 
Handsome  Norman. — The  Most  Beautiful  Woman  in  Europe. 
— The  Child-Wife. — Hortense  Mancini's  Adventures. — Life  at 
Chelsea. — Anecdote  of  Lord  Dorset. — Lord  Dorset  as  a  Poet. 
Lord  Kochester  in  his  Zenith. — His  Courage  and  Wit. — As  a 
Writer  and  a  Man. — Banished  from  Court. — Credulity,  Past 
and  Present. — "  Dr.  Bendo  "  and  La  Belle  Jennings. — Bishop 
Burnet's  Description. — La  Triste  Ileritiere. — Elizabeth,  Coun- 
tess of  Eochester. — Retribution  and  Eeformation. — Conversion. 
— Exhortation  to  Mr.  Fanshawe. — Beaux  without  Wit. — Little 
Jermyn. — An  Incomparable  Beauty. — Anthony  Hamilton. — ■ 
De  Grammont's  Biographer. — The  Three  Courts. — "  La  Belle 
Hamilton." — An  Intellectual  Beauty. — Sir  Peter  Lely's  Por- 
trait.—  Infatuation.  —  The  Household  Deity  of  Whitehall. — 
AVho  shall  have  the  Caleche  ? — A  Chai)lain  in  Livery. — At 
the  French  Court. — De  Grammont's  Last  Hours.  .    .    Page  78 

BEAU   FIELDING. 

On  Wits  and  Beaux. — Fielding's  Ancestry. — Scotland  Yard. — Or- 
lando of  "The  Tatler."— "  A  Coraplet'e  Gentleman."— In  Debt. 
— Adonis  in  Search  of  a  Wife. — The  Sham  Widow. — Ways 
and  Means. — A  Fatal  Intimacy. — Barbara  Yilliers,  Lady  Cas- 
tlemaine. — Quarrels  with  the  King. — The  Duchess  of  Cleve- 
hunl  in  Love. — The  Beau's  Second  Marriage. — The  Last  Days 
of  Fops  and  Beaux Paye  13(5 

OF   CERTAIN    CLUBS   AND   CLUB-WITS   UNDER 

ANNE. 

The  Raison  d'etre  of  Club-Life.— The  Origin  of  Qubs.— The  Estab- 
lishment of  Cofree-houses. — The  October  Ciub. — Tlie  Beef-steak 
Club. — Its  Modern  Representative. — Estcourt,  the  Actor. — The 
Kit-kat  Club. — The  Romance  of  tlie  Bowl. — The  Toasts  of  the 
Kit-kat. — Portraits  of  Ladies  of  the  Kit-kat. — The  ^lembers 
of  the  Kit-kat.— A  Good  Wit,  and  a  Bad  Architect.—"  Well- 
natured  Garth."—"  A  better  Wit  than  Poet."— The  Poets  of 


CONTENTS.  13 

the  Kit-kat. — Poets  and  tluir  Patrons.— Lord  Halifax  a.s  a 
Poet. — (.'liancellor  .Somers. — Charles  Sackville,  Lonl  I)oi>et. — 
Less  Celebrated  Wits. i'«<?e  152 

WILIJAM  CONGREVE. 

When  and  Where  was  he  P.orn? — Conflicting  Dates.— The  Middle 
Temple. — Congreve  finds  his  Voeation. — Verses  to  (^iieen  Mary. 
—Old  Retterton. — The  Tennis  Court  Theatre. — Congreve  aban- 
dons the  Drama. — Jeremy  Collier. — The  Tmnu)rality  of  the 
Stage. — Iloni  soit  qui  mal  y  pense. — Very  Inijiroper  Things. — 
Congreve's  ^Vritings. — Promiscuous  Attacks.— Jeremy's  "  Short 
Views." — Dryden's  Death.— Dryden's  Funeral.  — What  came 
of  a  "Drunken  Frolic."— A  Tub-Preacher.— A  ISIoh  in  the 
Al)hey.— Dryden's  Solicitude  for  his  Son. — Congreve's  Ambi- 
tion.— Anecdote  of  Voltaire  and  Congreve. — Authoi-ship  as  a 
Profession. — The  Profession  of  Maecenas. — Advantages  of  a 
Patron.  —  Congreve's  Private  Life.  — "Malbrook's"  Daugh- 
ter.— Legacies  to  Titled  Friends.— Congreve's  Death  and 
Burial P«i/e  175 

BEAU  NASH. 

Nash's  Birthplace  and  Father.  — Old  Nash.— Nash  at  Oxford.— 
Shifting  for  Himself.— Ofl'er  of  Knighthood.— Nash's  Gener- 
osity.—Doing  Penance  at  York.— Days  of  Folly.— A  very  Ro- 
mantic Story.— Bath. — Sickness  and  Civilization.— Nash  De- 
scends upon  Bath.— King  of  Bath.— Nash's  Chef-d'a'uvre.— 
The  Ball.  —  Improvements  in  the  Pump-room. —  A  Public 
Benefactor.— Canes  ?s.  Swonls. — Life  at  Bath  in  Nash's  Time. — 
Compact  with  the  Duke  of  licaufort. — Gaming  at  Bath.— The 
Fop's  Vanity.— Anecdotes  of  Na.sh.— "  Miss  Sylvia."— A  Gen- 
erous Act. — The  Setting  Sun.— A  Panegyric. — Na.sh'sOld  Age. 
— Ilis  Funeral.— His  Characteristics.— Beau  Nash  and  his  Flat- 
terers  i'«i/e  20G 

rniLTP,   DUKE  OF  WHARTON. 

Pope's  Lines  on  Wharton.— The  Duke's.S.ix^'stors.—IIis  Early  Years. 
—Marriage  at  Sixteen. — Wharton  takes  Leave  of  his  Tutor. — 
Espouses  tiie  Chevalier's  Cause. — Frolics  at  Paris. — Seeks  a 
Seat  in  Parliament.— "  Pawning  his  Principles."— Zeal  for  the 


14  CONTENTS. 

Orange  Cause. — A  Jacolj'ite  Hero. — The  Trial  of  Atterbury. — 
Wharton's  Defence  of  the  Bisliop. — A  Partisan  of  the  Cheva- 
lier.— Hypocritical  Signs  of  Penitence. — Sir  Robert  Walpole 
Duped. — A  New  Love. — ^Very  Trying. — The  Duke  of  Whar- 
ton's "Whens." — Military  Glory  at  Gibraltar. — A  "Colonel 
Aggregate." — "Uncle  Horace." — Wharton  to  "Uncle  Hor- 
ace."— Tlie  Duke's  Impudence. — Living  beyond  his  Means. 
— High  Treason. — Wharton's  Eeady  Wit. — Last  Extremities. 
— Sad  Days  in  Paris. — His  Last  Journey  to  Spain. — His  Activ- 
ity of  Mind. — His  Death  in  a  Convent Faye  238 


LORD  HERVEY. 

George  H.  Arriving  from  Hanover. — His  INIeeting  with  the  Queen. 
— Mrs.  Clayton. — Lady  Suffolk. — Queen  Caroline. — Sir  Rob- 
ert Walpole. — A  Statesman's  La.st  Days. — Lord  Hervey. — The 
Macaroni. — Lord  Hervey's  Ancestry. — An  Eccentric  Race. — 
Carr,  Lord  Hervey. — A  Fragile  Boy.— A  Butterfly  Existence. 
— George  II.'s  Family. — Anne  Brett. — A  Bitter  Cup. — The 
Darling  of  the  Family. — The  Younger  Royal  Princesses.— 
Evenings  at  St.  James's. — Frederick,  Prince  of  Wales. — Ame- 
lia Sophia  Walraoden. — Kingly  Insults. — Poor  Queen  Caroline ! 
— Miss  Yane. — Nocturnal  Diversions. — "  Neighbor  George's 
Orange-clicst." — Mary  Lepel,  Lady  Hervey. — Rivalry. — Lady 
Mary  Wort  ley  IMontagu. — Hervey's  Intimacy  with  I..ady  Mary. 
— Visits  to  Twickenham. — Bacon's  Opinion  of  Twickenham. — 
A  Visit  to  Pope's  Villa. — Pope  as  a  Host.— The  Little  Night- 
ingale.— The  Essence  of  Small-talk. — Hervey's  Aflectation. — 
Pope's  Quarrels. — Pope's  Lines  on  Lord  Hervey. — Hervey's 
Duel  with  Pulteney. — "Death  of  Lord  Hervey:  a  Drama." — 
Card-table  Conversation. — Queen  Caroline's  Last  Drawing- 
room. — Her  Illness  and  Agony. — The  (^ueen  Keei>s  her  Secret. 
— A  Painful  vScene. — The  Truth  Discovered. — The  Hated 
"Griff." — The  (Queen's  Dying  Bequests. — Her  Scm's  lj<n'ing  At- 
tentions.— Archbishop  Totter  is  Sent  for. — The  Duty  of  Recon- 
ciliation.— The  Dying  Queen. — The  Death  of  Queen  Caroline. 
— A  Change  in  IIerve3''s  Life. — Ix)ss  of  Court  Influence. — 
Lord  Hers'cy's  I>eath. — Platonic  Love. — Memoirs  of  his  Own 
Tiuie,    ..." Page  211 


CONTENTS.  15 

PITTLTP  DOR]iIEIl  STANHOPE,  FOURTH   EARL  OF 
CHI'>5TEKFIELD. 

Early  Years. — His  Aim  in  Life. — Hcrvey's  Description  of  Ches- 
terliold. — Study  of  Oratory. — Duty  of  an  Amljassador. — "His- 
tory of  the  liei^n  of  <ieor<,'e  H." — Oeorge  H.'b  Opinion  of  his 
Chronielers. — J  Jfe  in  tlie  Country. — ^lelnsina,  Countess  of  Wal- 
singhani. — Chestertield  and  Lady  SuflJilk. — (ieor^e  H.  and  iiis 
Fatiicr's  Will. — Dissolving  N'iews. — Madame  de  lloucliet. — 
Court  Ladies. — Lord-Lieutenant  of  Ireland. — A  ^Vise  and  Just 
Administration. — Reformation  of  the  Calendar. — In  Middle 
Life.  —  Chesterfield  I  louse.  —  Ex'elnsivenes.s.  —  Chesterfield's 
Neglect  of  Johnson. — Recommending  "  John.son's  Dictionary." 
—"Old  Samuel"  to  Chesterfield.— "  Defensive  Pride."— Ches- 
terfield's Rejoinder. — The  Gla.ss  of  Fashion. — Lord  Scarhor- 
ough's  Friendshiji. — Death  of  Chesterfield's  Son. — Chesterfield 
growing  Old. — His  Interest  in  his  Grandson. — "  I  must  Go  and 
Rehearse  my  Fimenil."— Chesterfield's  Will.— "A  Man  who 
had  no  Friends." — His  "  Letters  to  his  Son." — Les  Manieres 
Nobles Paye  332 


THE  ABBE  SCARRON. 

An  Ea.stcrn  Allegon,'. — Who  Comes  Here? — A  Mad  Freak  and  its 
Consequences. — Scarron's  Tiirly  Years. — Making  an  Abbe  of 
him. — The  Mayfair  of  Paris. — A  Helpless  Cripple. — Scarron's 
Lament  to  Pelli.ss(^)n. — Presented  at  Court. — The  Olfice  of  the 
Queen's  Patient. — Sain-on's  Writings. — Scarron's  Description 
of  Himself. — Improvidence  and  Servility. — The  Society  at 
Scarron's. — Scarron's  Lady  Friends. — The  Witty  Conversation. 
— Franyoise  d'.Vubign^'s  debut. — The  Sad  Story  of  La  Relle 
Indienne. — Scarron  in  Love. — Matrimonial  Consideration. — 
"An  Ofler  of  Marriage."— "Scarron's  Wife  will  Live  forever." 
— I'etits  Soui)ers. — The  Laugher's  Death-bed. — Scarron's  Last 
Moments. — A  Lesson  for  Gay  and  Grave Page  3G9 


LIST  OF   ILLUSTRATIONS. 


Pliotogravurcs  by  tlie  GEBBiii  &  llcaaon  Co. 


PACiE 

George  Vii.ijers,  Second  Dtke  of  Bvckihguam .  Frontispiece. 

Pn  I  LI  BERT,  Count  de  (Jkammont 78 

Charles  de  St.  Evremond,  Seioneiu  de  St.  Denis  le 

GUAST 100 

John  ^VlLMOT,  JOaul  of  Kociilstkr  .    ,• 110 

COLONEJ-     KoliKRT    (BkAU)    FiKLDINU I'M 

WlLLL\M    CONGUEVE 175 

KiciiAKD  (Beau)  Xasii 20(3 

Philip,  Dckk  of  Wharton- 2.38 

John,  Lord  IIervey 271 

Philip  Dormer  Stanhope,  Fourth  Karl  of  Chicster- 

FIELD 332 

Tin;  Amu':  ScARRON 3(;',) 

2  1.7 


TlIK 

WIT^  AND  BExVUX  OF  SOCIETY. 


GEORGE   VILLIERS,   SECOND  DUKE  OF 
BUCKINGHAM. 

Samuel  Pepys,  the  Aveathcr-glass  of  his  time,  hails 
the  first  glimpse  of  the  Restoration  of  Charles  II.  in 
his  usual  quaint  terms  and  vulgar  sycophancy. 

''To  Westminster  ILill,"'  says  lie;  "where  I  heard 
how  tlie  I'arliament  had  this  day  dissolved  themselves, 
and  did  pass  very  cheerfully  through  the  Hall,  and  the 
Speaker  without  his  mace.  The  whole  Ilall  was  joyful 
thereat,  as  well  as  themselves ;  and  now  they  begin  to 
talk  loud  of  tlic  kino;."  And  the  evenino;  was  closed, 
he  further  tells  us,  with  a  larfje  bonfire  in  the  Exchange, 
and  people  called  out,  "  God  bless  King  Charles  !" 

This  was  in  March,  1600  ;  and  during  that  spring 
Pepys  was  noting  down  how  he  did  not  think  it  pos- 
silile  tliat  my  "  Lord  Protector,"  Richard  Cromwell, 
should  come  into  ])ower  again  ;  liow  tlicrc  were  great 
hopes  of  the  king's  aiiiv;il:  how  jNlonk,  tli<'  Restorer, 
was  feasted  at  Mercers'  Hall  (Pepys's  own  especial); 
liDW  it  was  resolved  that  a  treaty  l)e  oftered  to  the 
king,   privately;    how  he  resolved  to  go  to  sea   with 

19 


20  SIGNS  OF  THE  KESTORATION. 

"my  lord:"  and  how,  while  they  lay  at  Gravesend, 
the  great  aftair  which  brought  back  Charles  Stuart 
Avas  virtually  accomplished.  Then,  with  various  paren- 
theses, inimitable  in  their  Avay,  Pepys  carries  on  his 
narrative.  He  has  left  his  father's  "cutting-room" 
to  take  care  of  itself;  and  finds  his  cabin  little,  though 
his  bed  is  convenient,  but  is  certain,  as  he  rides  at 
anchor  Avith  "my  lord,"  in  the  ship,  that  the  king 
"must  of  necessity  come  in,"  and  the  vessel  sails 
round  and  anchors  in  Lee  Koads.  "  To  the  castles 
about  Deal,  where  our  fleet"  (our Jieet,  the  saucy  son 
of  a  tailor  I)  "  lay  and  anchored  ;  great  was  the  shoot 
of  guns  from  the  castles,  and  ships,  and  our  answers." 
Glorious  Samuel !  in  his  element,  to  be  sure. 

Then  the  wind  grew  high:  he  began  to  be  "dizzy, 
and  squeamish  ;"  nevertheless  employed  "  Lord's  Day  " 
in  lookinir  throu<i;h  the  lieutenant's  class  at  two  tiood 
merchantmen,  and  the  Avomen  in  them  ;  "  being  pretty 
handsome;"  then  in  the  afternoon  he  first  saw  Calais, 
and  Avas  pleased,  though  it  Avas  at  a  great  distance. 
All  eves  Avere  lookino-  across  the  Channel  just  then — 
for  the  kin."- Avas  at  Flushino; ;  and,  though  the  "  Fa- 
nati(|ucs "  still  held  their  heads  uj)  high,  and  the 
Cavaliers  also  talked  high  on  the  other  side,  tlie  cause 
iliat  Pepys  was  bound  to,  still  gained  ground. 

Tlicu  "  tliey  liegin  to  speak  freely  of  King  Charles;" 
('Imrcbrs  in  the  City,  Samuel  declares,  were  setting  up 
his  arms;  merchant-slii})s — more  important  in  tliose 
days — Avere  hanging    out  his    colors.     Tie  hears,  too, 


SA.Ml  1:L  TKl'Y.S    l.N    HIS   GLORY.  21 

how  the  Mercers'  CompaiiY  were  inukiiig  a  statue 
of  his  gracious  Majesty  to  set  up  in  the  Excliangc. 
Ah  I  IVpys's  heart  is  merry:  he  lias  forty  sliillings 
(some  sliiihhy  pcr([uisite)  given  liiin  hy  Captain  Cowes 
of  tlie  "Paragon:"  and  "my  loid"  in  the  evening 
"falls  to  sinfjinii "  a  song  upon  the  liiuni)  to  the 
tune  of  tlie  "  lilacksniith." 

The  hopes  of  the  Cavalier  party  are  hourly  increas- 
ing, and  those  of  Pepys  we  may  be  sure  also ;  for  Piui, 
the  tailor,  spends  a  morning  in  his  cabin  "  putting  a 
great  niiinv  rihl)ons  to  a  sail."  And  the  king  is  to 
be  Ijrought  over  suddenly,  "my  lord"  tells  hiui :  and 
indeed  it  looks  like  it,  for  the  sailors  are  drinking 
Charles's  health  in  the  streets  of  Deal,  on  their  knees; 
"  which,  methinks,"  says  Pepys,  "  is  a  little  too  imich  ;" 
and  ••methinks"  so,  worthy  Master  Pepys,  also. 

Then  how  the  news  of  the  Parliamentary  vote  of 
tlie  king's  declaration  was  received!  Pepys  becomes 
eloi[uent. 

"  lie  that  can  fancy  a  fleet  (like  ours)  in  her  pride, 
witli  pendants  loose,  guns  roaring,  caps  flying,  and  the 
loud  '  Vive  le  RoH'  echoed  from  one  ship's  company  to 
another ;  he,  and  he  only,  can  apprehend  the  joy  this 
enclosed  vote  was  received  with,  or  the  blessing  he 
thoiiglit  himself  possessed  of  that  bore  it." 

Next,  orders  come  for  "my  lord"  to  sail  forthwith 
to  the  king;  and  the  painters  and  tailors  set  to  work, 
Pepys  supenntending,  "  cutting  out  some  pieces  of 
yellow  cloth  in    the  fashion  of  a  crown    and  C.  R.  ; 


22  WHO  WAS  SAMUEL  PEPYS? 

and  putting  it  upon  a  fine  sheet" — and  that  is  to 
supersede  the  States'  arras,  and  is  finished  and  set 
up.  And  the  next  day,  on  May  14,  the  Hague  is 
seen  phiinly  by  us,  "  my  lord  going  up  in  his  night- 
gown into  the  cuddy." 

And  then  they  hind  at  the  Hague ;  some  "  nasty 
Dutchmen"  come  on  board  to  offer  their  boats,  and 
get  money,  which  Pepys  does  not  like ;  and  in  time 
they  find  themselves  in  the  Hague,  "  a  most  neat  place 
in  all  respects:"  salute  the  Queen  of  Bohemia  and  the 
Prince  of  Orange — afterwards  William  III. — and  find 
at  their  place  of  supper  nothing  but  a  "  sallet "  and 
two  or  three  bones  of  mutton  provided  for  ten  of  us, 
"  which  was  very  strange."  Nevertheless,  on  they  sail, 
having  returned  to  the  fleet,  to  Schevelling  :  and,  on 
the  23d  of  the  month,  go  to  meet  the  king  ;  who,  "  on 
getting  into  the  boat,  did  kiss  my  lord  with  much  af- 
fection." An  "extraordinary  press  of  good  company," 
and  great  mirth  all  day,  announced  the  Restoration. 
Nevertheless  Charles's  clothes  had  not  been,  till  this 
time,  Master  Pepys  is  assured,  worth  forty  shillings — 
and  he,  as  a  connoisseur,  Avas  scandalized  at  the  fact. 

And  now,  before  we  proceed,  let  us  ask  who  worthy 
Samuel  Pepys  was,  that  he  should  pass  such  stringent 
comments  on  men  and  manners  ?  His  origin  was  lowly, 
although  his  family  ancient;  his  father  having  followed, 
until  the  Restoration,  the  calling  of  a  tailor.  Pepys, 
vulgar  as  he  was,  had  nevertheless  received  an  uni- 
versity education ;  first  entering  Trinity  College,  Cam- 


A   ROYAL  (OMPAXY.  23 

hrido'C,  as  a  sizar.  To  <tiir  wonder  wc  find  liini  marry- 
in"  furtively  and  independently;  and  his  wife,  at  fifteen, 
was  ulad  with  her  husl);iiiil  to  take  uii  :in  alxxlc  in  the 
house  of  a  relative,  Sir  Edward  Montagu,  afterwards 
Earl  of  Sandwicli,  the  "  my  lord  "  under  Avhose  shadow 
Samuel  TV'pys  dwelt  in  reverence.  By  this  nohleman's 
inlluenee  Pepys  for  ever  left  the  "  cutting-room  ;"  he 
acted  first  as  secretary  (always  as  toad-eater,  one  would 
fancy),  then  became  a  cleik  in  tlu-  Admiralty  ;  and  as 
such  Avent,  after  the  Restoration,  to  live  in  Seething 
Lane,  in  tlie  parish  of  St.  Olave,  Hart  Street — and 
in  St.  Olave  his  mortal  part  was  ultimately  deposited. 
So  much  fir  Pepys.  Sec  him  now,  in  his  full- 
bottomed  wig,  and  best  cambric  neckerchief,  looking 
out  for  the  kin"  and  his  suit,  wlio  are  coming  on  board 

~  '  CD 

the  "Nazeby." 

"  Up,  and  made  myself  as  fine  as  I  could,  with  tlie 
linnin"  stockin<i;s  on,  and  wide  canons  that  I  bouirht 
the  other  day  at  the  Hague."  So  began  he  the  day. 
"  All  day  nothing  but  lords  and  persons  of  honor  on 
board,  that  we  were  exceeding  full.  Dined  in  great 
deal  of  state,  the  royalle  company  by  themselves  in  the 
coache,  Avhich  was  a  blessed  sight  to  see."  This  royal 
company  consisted  of  Charles,  the  Dukes  of  York  and 
Gloucester,  his  brothers,  the  Queen  of  Bohemia,  the 
Princess  Royal,  the  Prince  of  Orange,  afterwards  AVil- 
liam  III. — all  of  whose  hands  Pepys  kissed,  after  din- 
ner. The  Kin"  and  Duke  of  York  chan"ed  the  names 
of  the  ships.     The  "  Rumpers,"  as  Pepys  calls  the  Par- 


24  PEPYS   "READY   TO  WEEP." 

liamentarians,  had  given  one  the  name  of  the  "  Nazeby ;" 
and  that  was  now  christened  the  "  Charles :"  "  Richard  " 
was  changed  into  "James,"  the  "Speaker"  into 
"Mary,"  the  "Lambert,"  was  "Henrietta,"  and  so 
on.  How  merry  the  king  must  have  been  Avhilst  he 
thus  turned  the  Roundheads,  as  it  w'ere,  off  the  ocean ; 
and  how  he  walked  here  and  there,  up  and  down  (quite 
contrary  to  what  Samuel  Pepys  "expected"),  and  fell 
into  discourse  of  his  escape  from  Worcester,  and  made 
Samuel  "  ready  to  weep  "  to  hear  of  his  travelling  four 
days  and  three  nights  on  foot,  up  to  his  knees  in  dirt, 
with  "  nothing  but  a  green  coat  and  a  pair  of  breeches 
on  "  (worse  and  worse,  thought  Pepys),  and  a  pair  of 
country  shoes  that  made  his  feet  sore  ;  and  liow,  at  one 
I^lace  he  was  made  to  drink  l)y  the  servants,  to  show  he 
was  not  a  Roundhead  ;  and  how,  at  another  place — and 
Charles,  the  best  teller  of  a  story  in  his  own  dominions, 
may  here  have  softened  his  tone — the  master  of  the 
house,  an  innkeeper,  as  the  king  was  standing  by  the 
fire,  with  his  hands  on  the  back  of  a  chair,  kneeled 
down  and  kissed  his  hand  "privately,"  saying  he 
could  not  ask  him  Avho  he  was,  but  l)id  "  God  bless 
him,  where  he  was  going  !" 

Then,  rallying  after  this  touch  of  pathos,  Charles 
took  his  hearers  over  to  Fecamp,  in  France — thence 
to  Rouen,  where,  he  said,  in  his  easy,  irresistible  way, 
"  I  looked  so  poor  that  the  peoidc  went  into  the  rooms 
before  I  went  away,  to  see  if  I  had  not  stolen  something 
or  other." 


THE   I'LAY.MATJ-:   OF   CllAlMJlS    If.  2-") 


AVitli  wliat  roverenco  :iii(l  sympatliy  did  our  J'epys 
listen;  imt  Ik-  was  forccil  to  liiirrv  oR'  to  £ret  Lord 
Berkeley  ;•  Ih'iI  ;  .-iii'l  wiili  "•  iiiiicli  ;i<lo"'  (as  one  may 
believe)  he  did  get  '•  liim  to  \trd  with  My  Lord  Middle- 
sex ;"  so,  after  seeing  these  two  peers  of  the  realm  in 
that  dignified  predieament — two  in  a  bed — ''to  my 
ca])in  agjiiii,""  where  the  eoinpaiiy  were  still  talking 
of"  tlie  king's  diflieulties,  and  liow  his  Majesty  wsis 
fain  to  eat  a  piece  of  bread  ;iiid  cheese  out  of  a  poor 
body's  pocket ;  and,  at  a  Catliolic  liouse,  how  Ik;  lay 
a  good  while  ''in  the  Priest's  Hole,   for  privacy." 

Li  all  tliese  hairbreadth  escapes — of  which  the  king 
spoke  with  infinite  humor  and  good  feeling — one  name 
•was  perpetually  introduced : — George — George  Villiers, 
Villers,  as  the  i-oyal  narrator  called  liim  ;  for  the  name 
was  so  pronounced  formerly.  And  well  he  might;  for 
George  Villiers  had  been  his  playmate,  classfellow,  nay, 
bedfellow  sometimes,  in  priests'  lioles ;  tlieir  names, 
tlieir  haunts,  their  hearts,  were  all  assimilated;  and 
misfortune  had  bound  them  closely  to  each  otlier.  To 
George  Villiers  let  us  now  return  ;  he  is  waitin*'  for  his 
royal  master  on  the  other  side  of  the  Channel — in  Eng- 
land.    A  nd  a  strange  character  have  we  to  deal  with  : — 

"A  mail  so  various,  tliat  he  seemed  to  be 
Not  one,  hut  all  mankind's  epitome: 
Siifi"  in  opinions,  always  in  tlu'  wrong, 
Was  everything  by  starts,  and  nothing  long; 
But,  in  the  course  of  one  revolving  moon, 
Was  chemist,  tiddler,  statesman,  and  buUbon."  * 
'  Drvden. 


26  GEORGE  VILLIERS. 

Such  was  Georffe  Villiers :  tLo  Alcibiades  of  that  ao;e. 
Let  us  trace  one  of  the  most  romantic,  and  brilliant, 
and  unsatisfactory  lives  that  has  ever  been  written. 

George  Villiers  was  born  at  Wallino;ford  House,  in 
the  parish  of  St.-jNIartin-in-the-Fields,  on  the  30th 
January,  1G27.  The  Admiralty  now  stands  on  the 
site  of  the  mansion  in  which  he  first  saw  the  light. 
His  fiither  was  George  Villiers,  the  favorite  of  James 
I.  and  of  Charles  I.  ;  his  mother,  the  Lady  Katherine 
Manners,  daughter  and  heiress  of  Francis,  Earl  of 
Rutland.  Scarcely  was  he  a  year  old,  when  the 
assassination  of  his  father,  by  Felton,  threw  the  affairs 
of  his  family  into  confusion.  Ilis  mother,  after  the 
Duke  of  Buckingham's  death,  gave  birth  to  a  son, 
Francis ;  Avho  was  subsequently,  savagely  killed  by 
the  Roundheads,  near  Kingston.  Then  the  Duchess 
of  Buckingham  very  shortly  married  again,  and  unit- 
ing herself  to  Randolph  Macdonald,  Earl  of  Antrim, 
became  a  rigid  Catholic.  She  was  therefore  lost  to 
her  children,  or  rather,  they  were  lost  to  her ;  for 
King  Charles  I.,  Avho  had  promised  to  be  a  "  husband 
to  her,  and  a  father  to  her  children,"  removed  them 
froln  her  charge,  and  educated  them  with  the  royal 
princes. 

The  youthful  peer  soon  gave  indications  of  genius ; 
and  all  that  a  careful  education  could  do  was  directed 
to  improve  his  natural  capacity  under  private  tutors. 
lie  Avent  to  Caml)ridgc ;  and  thence,  under  the  care 
of  a  preceptor  named  Aylesbury,  travelled  into  France. 


GEOiail':    VI  1.1,1  KKSS    INIIKUITANCK.  27 

lie  was  accompanied  by  liis  yo'm^i  liandsome,  fine- 
si)iriteil  l»rotlier,  Francis;  and  tliis  was  tlio  sunshine 
of  his  life.  His  father  had  indeed  h'ft  him,  as  his 
biograplier  Brian  Fairfax  expresses  it,  '^  the  greatest 
name  in  Enghmd ;  his  mother,  the  greatest  estate  of 
any  sul)ject."  With  tliis  iidieritancc  there  hail  also 
descended  to  him  the  wonderful  beauty,  the  match- 
less trrace,  of  his  ill-fated  fatlier.  Great  abilities, 
couraijre,  fascination  of  manners,  were  also  his ;  but 
he  had  not  been  endowed  with  firmness  of  character, 
and  was  at  once  energetic  and  versatile.  Even  at 
this  age,  the  qualities  which  became  his  ruin  were 
clearly  discoverable. 

George  Villiers  was  recalled  to  England  by  the 
troubles  which  drove  the  king  to  Oxford,  and  whicli 
converted  that  academical  city  into  a  garrison,  its 
under-graduates  into  soldiers,  its  ancient  halls  into 
barrack -rooms.  Villiers  was  on  this  occasion  entered 
at  Christ  Church :  the  youth's  best  feelings  were 
aroused,  and  his  loyalty  was  engaged  to  one  to  whom 
his  father  owed  so  much.  He  was  now  a  young  man 
of  twenty-one  years  of  age — able  to  act  for  himself; 
and  he  went  heart  and  soul  into  the  cause  of  his 
sovereign.  Never  was  there  a  gayer,  a  more  pre- 
possessing Cavalier.  He  could  charm  even  a  Round- 
head. The  hai^h  and  Presbyterian-minded  Bishop 
Burnet,  has  told  us  that  "  he  was  a  man  of  noble 
presence ;  had  a  great  liveliness  of  wit,  and  a  peculiar 
faculty  of  turning  everything  into  ridicule,  with  bold 


28     TWO  GALLANT  YOUNG  NOBLEMEN. 

figures  and  natural  descriptions."  How  invaluable  he 
must  have  been  in  the  Common-rooms  at  Oxford,  then 
turned  into  guard-rooms,  his  eye  upon  some  unlucky 
volunteer  Don,  -who  had  put  oft"  his  clerky  costume 
for  a  buff"  jacket,  and  could  not  manage  his  drill! 
Irresistible  as  his  exterior  is  declared  to  have  been, 
the  original  mind  of  Villiers  was  even  far  more  in- 
fluential. De  Grammont  tells  us,  "  he  was  extremely 
handsome,  but  still  thought  himself  much  more  so 
than  he  really  was ;  although  he  had  a  great  deal 
of  discernment,  vet  his  vanities  made  him  mistake 
some  civilities  as  intended  for  his  person  which  were 
only  bestowed  on  his  wit  and  drollery." 

But  this  very  vanity,  so  unpleasant  in  an  old  man, 
is  only  amusing  in  a  younger  wit.  Whilst  thus  a 
gallant  of  the  court  and  camp,  the  young  nobleman 
proved  himself  to  be  no  less  brave  than  witty.  Juve- 
nile as  he  was,  with  a  brother  still  younger,  they  fought 
on  the  royalist  side  at  Lichfield,  in  the  storming  of  the 
Cathedral  Close.  For  thus  allowing  their  lives  to  be 
endangered,  their  mother  blamed  Lord  Gerard,  one  of 
the  Duke's  guardians  ;  whilst  the  Parliament  seized  the 
pretext  of  confiscating  their  estates,  which  were  after- 
wards returned  to  them,  on  account  of  their  being 
under  ago  at  the  time  of  confiscation.  Tlie  youths 
were  then  placed  under  the  care  of  the  Earl  of 
Northumberland,  by  whose  permission  they  travelled 
in  France  and  Italy,  where  they  appeared — their 
estates  having  been  restored — with  princely  magnifi- 


Ml'llDKU  OF    1I:AN(  IS    VIl.LIERS.  20 

cence.  Nevertheless,  on  hearing  of  die  imprisonment 
of  Charles  I.  in  the  Isle  of  Wight,  the  gallant  youths 
retunuMl  to  England  and  }n\\\rd  the  army  under  the 
Earl  of  Holland,  who  was  defeated  near  Nonsuch,  in 
Surrey. 

A  sad  episode  in  the  annals  of  these  eventful  times 
is  presented  in  the  late  of  the  handsome,  brave  Francis 
Villiers.  His  nnirder,  for  one  can  call  it  by  no  other 
name,  shows  how  keenly  the  personal  feelings  of  the 
Roundheads  were  engaged  in  this  national  (juarrel. 
Under  most  circumstances.  Englishmen  would  have 
spared  the  youth,  and  respected  the  gallantry  of  tlie 
free  young  soldier,  wlio,  planting  himself  against  an 
oak-tree  which  grew  in  the  road,  refused  to  ask  ior 
(jnarter,  l)Ut  di'rendrd  hiuistdf  against  several  assail- 
ants. r>iit  the  name  of  Villiers  w;us  hateful  in  Puritan 
cars.  ''■Hew  them  down,  root  and  branch  I"  was  the 
sentiment  that  actuated  the  soldiery.  His  very  loveli- 
ness exasperated  their  vengeance.  At  last,  "  with  nine 
wounds  on  his  beautiful  face  and  body,"  says  Fairfax, 
"he  was  slain."  "The  oak-tree,"  writes  the  devoted 
servant,  "  is  his  monument,"  and  the  letters  of  F.  V. 
were  cut  in  it  in  his  day.  His  body  was  conveyed  l)y 
Avater  to  York  House,  and  was  entombed  with  that  of 
his  father,  in  the  ('hapel  of  Henry  MI. 

His  brotiier  lied  towards  St.  Neot's,  where  he 
encountered  a  strange  kind  of  pcrih  Tobias  Rustat 
attended  him  :  and  was  with  him  in  the  rising  in  Kent 
for  King  Charles  I.,  wherein  the  Duke  was  engaged ; 


30  AFTER  THE  BATTEE  OF   WORCESTER. 

and  tliey,  being  put  to  the  flight,  the  Duke's  helmet, 
by  a  brush  under  a  tree,  Avas  turned  upon  his  back, 
and  tied  so  fast  with  a  string  under  his  throat,  "  that 
Avithout  the  present  help  of  T.  E..,"  writes  Fairfax, 
"•  it  had  undoubtedly  choked  him,  as  I  have  credibly 
heard." ' 

Whilst  at  St.  Neot's,  the  house  in  which  Villiers  had 
taken  refuge  was  surrounded  with  soldiers.  He  had  a 
stout  heart,  and  a  dexterous  hand ;  he  took  his  resolu- 
tion ;  rushed  out  ujjon  his  foes,  killed  the  officer  in  com- 
mand, galloped  off  and  joined  the  Prince  in  the  Downs. 

The'  sad  story  of  Charles  I.  was  played  out ;  but 
Villiers  remained  stanch,  and  was  permitted  to  return 
and  to  accompany  Prince  Charles  into  Scotland.  Then 
came  the  battle  of  Worcester  in  1651 :  there  Charles  II. 
showed  himself  a  worthy  descendant  of  James  IV,  of 
Scotland.  He  resolved  to  conquer  or  die :  with  des- 
perate gallantry  the  English  Cavaliers  and  the  Scotch 
Highlanders  seconded  the  monarch's  valiant  onslauo-ht 
on  Crorawell's  horse,  and  the  invincible  Life  Guards 
were  almost  driven  back  by  the  shock.  But  they  were 
not  seconded;    Charles  II.   liad  his  horse  twice  shot 

'  Tlie  liny  nfter  tlie  b;itllc  at  Kini^^ton,  the  Dnke's  estates  were 
confi.sc-atwi  (8th  July,  IG-IS). — Nk-liols's  History  of  Leiwstersliiiv, 
iii.  213;  who  also  says  that  the  Duke  oflfered  marriage  to  oiu' of 
tin'  (bnisjihters  of  t'l-onnvcll,  hiil  was  ri'fiisccl.  llv  wnU  aUnv.Ml  in 
164S,  hut  returned  wilii  Cliarles  IT.  to  S<-otlan(l  in  KioU,  and 
acain  escaped  to  l-'rance  after  the  hatlle  of  AVoreester,  1()')1.  The 
.sale  of  the  pictures  would  seem  to  have  coninK'Ut.-ed  durin^ji;  his  lirst 
exile. 


BOSCOIJEL.  31 

Tindrr  liiiii,  but,  notliiiig  (l:iinite<l,  lie  was  the  last  to 
tear  liiniself  away  from  the  field,  and  then  only  iijton 
the  solicitations  of  his  friends. 

Charles  retired  to  Kidderminster  that  evening.  The 
Duke  of  Buckingham,  the  gallant  Lord  Derby,  AVilmot, 
afterwards  Earl  of  Rochester,  and  some  others,  rode 
near  him.  They  were  followed  by  a  small  body  of 
horse.  Disconsolately  they  rode  on  northwards,  a  faith- 
ful band  of  sixty  being  resolved  to  escort  his  Majesty 
to  Scotland.  At  length  they  halted  on  Kinver  Heath, 
near  Kidderminster  :  their  guide  having  lost  the  way. 
In  this  extremity  Lord  Derby  said  tliat  lie  had  been 
received  kindly  at  an  old  house  in  a  secluded  woody 
country,  between  Tong  Castle  and  Brewood,  on  the 
borders  of  Staffordshire.  It  was  named  "  Boscobel," 
he  said  ;  and  that  word  has  henceforth  conjured  up  to 
the  mind's  eye  the  remembrance  of  a  band  of  tired 
heroes,  riding  through  woody  glades  to  an  ancient 
house,  where  shelter  was  given  to  the  worn-out  horses 
and  scarcely  less  harassed  riders. 

But  not  so  rapidly  did  they  in  reality  proceed.  A 
Catholic  family,  named  Giffard,  were  living  at  White- 
Ladies,  about  twenty-six  miles  from  Worcester.  This 
Avas  onlv  about  half  a  mile  from  Boscobel:  it  had  been 
a  convent  of  Cistercian  nuns,  whose  long  white  cloaks 
(if  (iM  had  once  l)een  seen,  ghost-lik(\  amiil  forest 
glades  or  on  hillock  green.  The  White-Ladies  had 
other  memories  to  grace  it  besides  those  of  holy 
vestai-i,  or  of  unholy  Cavaliers.     From  the  time  of 


32  AT  THE   WHITE-LADIES. 

the  Tudors,  a  respectable  ftimily  named  Somers  liad 
owned  the  White-Ladies,  and  inhabited  it  since  its 
white-garbed  tenants  had  been  turned  out,  and  the 
phice  secuhirized.  "  Somers's  House,"  as  it  was 
called  (though  more  happily,  the  old  name  has  been 
restored),  had  received  Queen  Elizabeth  on  her  prog- 
ress. The  richly  cultivated  old  conventual  gardens 
had  supplied  the  Queen  with  some  famous  pears,  and, 
in  the  fulness  of  her  approval  of  the  fruit,  she  had 
added  them  to  the  City  arms.  At  that  time  one  of 
these  vaunted  pear-trees  stood  securely  in  the  market- 
place of  Worcester. 

At  the  White-Ladies,  Charles  rested  for  half  an 
hour ;  and  here  he  left  his  garters,  waistcoat,  and 
other  garments,  to  avoid  discovery,  ere  he  proceeded. 
They  were  long  kept  as  relics. 

The  mother  of  Lord  Somers  had  ])een  placed  in  this 
old  house  for  security,  for  she  was  on  the  eve  of  giviniT 
birth  to  the  future  statesman,  who  was  born  in  that 
sanctuary  just  at  this  time.  His  father  at  that  very 
moment  commanded  a  troop  of  horse  in  Cromwell's 
army,  so  that  the  risk  the  Cavaliers  ran  was  imminent. 
Tlie  King's  horse  was  led  into  the  liall.  Day  was 
dawning ;  and  the  Cavaliers,  as  they  entered  the 
old  conventual  tenement,  and  saw  th(>  sunbeams  on 
its  walls,  perceived  tlieir  peril.  A  t'aiiiily  of  servants 
named  Pcnderell  held  various  offices  there,  and  at 
Boscobel.  William  took  care  of  P>oseobel,  (leorge 
was   a  servant  at  White-Ladies;    Humphrey  was  the 


DISGUISING   TIIK  KING.  33 

miller  to  that  house;  Richard  lived  close  by,  at 
Ilebbal  Grange.  He  and  William  were  called  into 
the  royal  presence.  Lord  Derby  then  said  to  them, 
"  This  is  the  King  ;  have  a  care  of  him,  and  preserve 
him  as  thou  didst  me." 

Then  the  attendant  courtiers  be^an  undressinir  the 
King.  They  took  off  his  buff-coat,  and  j>ut  on  him  a 
"noggon  coarse  shirt,"  and  a  green  suit  and  aiiotlier 
doublet — Richard  renderell's  woodman's  dress.  Lord 
Wilmot  cut  his  sovereign's  hair  with  a  knife,  but 
Richard  Penderell  took  up  his  shears  and  finished 
the  work.  "Burn  it,"  said  the  king;  but  Richard 
kept  the  sacred  locks.  Then  Charles  covered  his 
dark  face  Avith  soot.  Could  anvthino;  have  taken 
away  the  expression  of  his  half-sleepy,  half-merry 
eyes  ? 

They  departed,  and  half  an  hour  afterwards  Colonel 

Ashenhurst,  with  a  troop  of  Roundhead  horse,  rode  up 

to  the  White-Ladies.     The  King,  meantime,  had  been 

conducted  by  Richard  Pendcrell  into  a  coppice-wood, 

with  a  liill-lidok  in  his  hands  for  defence  and  disjjuise. 

Rut  his  followers  were  overtaken  near  Newport;  and 

here  Ruckingham,   with   Lords  Talbot  and  Leviston, 

escaped;    and  henceforth,   until   Charles's  wanderings 

were   transferred   from    Enn-land   to   France,    George 

Villiers  was  separated  from  the  Prince.     Accompanied 

by  the  Earls  of  Derby  and  Lauderdale,  and  by  Lord 

Talbot,  he  proceeded  northwards,  in  hopes  of  joining 

General  Leslie  and  the  Scotch  horse.     Rut  their  hopes 
Vol,.  I.— ;i 


34  VILLIEES  IN  IIIDIKG. 

Avere  soon  dashed  :  attacked  by  a  body  of  Roundheads, 
Buckingham  and  Lord  Leviston  were  compelled  to 
leave  the  high  road,  to  alight  from  their  horses,  and 
to  make  their  way  to  Bloore  Park,  near  Newport, 
where  Villiers  found  a  shelter.  lie  Avas  soon,  hoAV- 
CA^er,  necessitated  to  depart :  he  put  on  a  laborer's 
dress ;  he  deposited  his  George,  a  gift  from  Henrietta 
Maria,  Avith  a  companion,  and  set  off  for  Billstrop,  in 
Nottinghamshire,  one  iMatthews,  a  carpenter,  acting  as 
his  guide ;  at  Billstrop  he  Avas  Avelcomed  by  Mr.  HaAvley, 
a  Cavalier ;  and  from  that  place  he  Avent  to  Brookesby, 
in  Leicestershire,  the  original  seat  of  the  Villiers  family, 
and  the  birthplace  of  his  father.  Here  he  Avas  received 
by  Lady  Villiers — the  AvidoAv,  probably,  of  his  father's 
brother,  Sir  William  Villiers,  one  of  those  contented 
country  squires  Avho  not  only  sought  no  distinction,  but 
scarcely  thanked  James  I.  when  he  made  him  a  baronet. 
Here  might  the  hunted  refugee  see,  on  the  open  battle- 
ments of  the  church,  the  shields  on  Avhicli  Avere  exhibited 
united  quarterings  of  his  father's  family  Avith  those  of 
his  mother ;  here,  listen  to  old  tales  about  his  grand- 
fother,  good  Sir  George,  Avho  married  a  serving-Avoman 
in  his  deceased  wife's  kitchen  ;^  and  that  serving-Avoman 
became  the  leader  of  fiishions  in  the  court  of  James. 

'  Sir  CJeor^e  Villiers's  Kccond  wife  was  Mary,  (laughter  of  Antony 
Beaumont,  Esq.,  of  (ilenfield  (Nichols's  Leieestersliirc,  iii.  193), 
who  was  son  of  Win.  Beaumont,  Esq.,  of  Cole  Orton.  Slie  after- 
wards was  nianied  suecessiA'ely  to  Sir  \Vm.  Baynerand  Sir  Thomas 
Compton,  and  was  created  Countess  of  r.ucUin.nlKmi  in  IGl.S. 


IIIO   APPEAKS   AS   A    MOUNTEBANK.  35 

Here  lie  miglit  ponder  on  the  vicissitudes  Avhicli  marked 
tlie  destiny  of  the  house  of  Villiers,  and  wonder  what 
shouhl  come  next. 

That  the  spirit  of  adventure  was  strong  witliin  liim, 
is  sliown  by  his  (hiring  to  go  up  to  London,  and  disguis- 
iiig  hiiiisclf  as  a  mountebank.  He  had  a  coat  made, 
called  a  "  Jack  I'nddiiig  Coat :  "  a  little  hat  was  stuck 
on  his  head,  with  a  fox's  tail  in  it,  and  cocks'  feathers 
here  and  there.  A  wizards  mask  one  day,  a  daubing 
of  flour  another,  completed  the  disgui.se  it  w'as  then  so 
usual  to  assume  :  witness  the  long  traffic  held  at  Exeter 
Change  by  the  Duchess  of  Tyrconnel,  Frances  Jennings, 
in  a  white  mask,  selling  laces,  and  French  gew-gaws,  a 
trader  to  all  appearance,  but  really  carrying  on  political 
intrigues;  every  one  went  to  chat  with  the  "White 
Milliner,"  as  slie  was  called,  durinoi;  the  reign  of  Wil- 
liam  and  Mary.  The  Duke  next  erected  a  stage  at 
Ciiaring  Cross — in  the  very  face  of  the  stern  Rumpers, 
who,  with  long  faces,  rode  past  the  sinful  man  each  day 
as  they  came  ambling  up  from  the  Parliament  House. 
A  baii<l  of  puppet-j)layers  and  violins  set  up  their 
shows;  and  music  covers  a  multitude  of  inconjxruities. 
The  ballad  was  then  tlic  great  vehicle  of  personal 
attack,  and  Villiers's  dawning  taste  for  poetry  was 
shown  in  the  ditties  which  he  now  composed,  and  in 
which  he  sometimes  assisted  vocally.  Whilst  all  the 
other  Cavaliers  were  forced  to  fly,  he  thus  bearded  his 
enemies  in  tlieir  very  homes :  sometimes  he  talked  to 
them  face  to  face,  ami  kept  the  sanctimonious  citizens 


3G  BUCKINGHAM'S  HABITS. 

in  talk,  till  tliey  found  themselves  sinfully  disposed  to 
lausrh.  But  this  vao;rant  life  had  serious  evils :  it 
broke  down  all  the  restraints  which  civilized  society 
naturally,  and  beneficially,  imposes.  The  Duke  of 
Buckingham,  Butler,  the  author  of  Hudibras,  Avrites, 
"  rises,  eats,  goes  to  bed  by  the  Julian  account,  long 
after  all  others  that  go  by  the  new  style,  and  keeps 
the  same  hours  with  owls  and  the  Antipodes.  He 
is  a  great  observer  of  the  Tartar  customs,  and  never 
eats  till  the  great  cham,  having  dined,  makes  proclama- 
tion that  all  the  world  may  go  to  dinner.  He  does  not 
dwell  in  his  house,  but  haunts  it  like  an  evil  spirit,  that 
walks  all  night,  to  disturb  the  family,  and  never  appears 
by  day.  He  lives  perpetually  benighted,  runs  out  of 
his  life,  and  loses  his  time  as  men  do  their  ways  in  the 
dark  :  and  as  blind  men  are  led  by  their  dogs,  so  he  is 
governed  by  some  mean  servant  or  other  that  relates  to 
his  pleasures.  He  is  as  inconstant  as  the  moon  which 
he  lives  under;  and  althou2;h  he  does  nothino;  but 
advise  with  his  pillow  all  day,  he  is  as  great  a  stranger 
to  himself  as  he  is  to  the  rest  of  the  world.  His  mind 
entertains  all  things  that  come  and  go ;  but  like  guests 
and  strangers,  they  are  not  welcome  if  they  stay  long. 
This  lays  him  open  to  all  cheats,  quacks,  and  impostors, 
who  ap])ly  to  every  particular  humor  while  it  lasts,  and 
afterwards  vanish.  He  deforms  nature,  while  he  in- 
tends to  adorn  her,  like  Indians  that  hang  jewels  in 
their  lij)s  and  noses.      His  ears  arc  perpetually  drilling 


HE  SEES  Ills  SISTER.  37 

■\vitli    a   fiddlestick,   and    endures    jilcasures    with    less 
patience  than  other  men  do  their  pains." 

Tlie  more  eflfectually  to  support  his  character  as  a 
iii<iiiiitebank,Villiers  sohl  mithridate  and  galbanum  plas- 
ters :  thousands  of  spectators  and  customers  thronifed 
every  day  to  see  :nid  hear  liini.  Possibly  many  guessed 
tliut  beneath  all  this  fantastic  exterior  some  ulterior 
project  was  concealed;  yet  he  remained  untouched  by 
the  City  Guards.     Well  did  Drydcn  describe  him  : — 

"Then  all  f(H-  \v()mcn,  paint iii.y,  rliymln£r,  drinking, 
Beside  ten  thousand  freaks  that  died  in  thinking. 
Blest  madman,  who  could  every  hour  employ 
With  something  new  to  wish  or  to  enjoy." 

ITis  elder  sister,  Lady  jNIary  A^illiers,  had  married 
the  Duke  of  Richmond,  one  of  tlie  loyal  adherents  of 
Charles  I.  The  duke  was,  therefore,  in  durance  at 
Windsor,  whilst  the  duchess  was  to  be  placed  under 
strict  surveillance  at  Whitehall. 

Villiers  resolved  to  see  her.  Ilearinfr  that  she  was 
to  pass  into  Whitehall  on  a  certain  day,  he  set  up  his 
stage  Avherc  she  could  not  fail  to  perceive  him.  lie 
had  something  important  to  say  to  h(;r.  As  she  drew 
near,  he  cried  out  to  the  mob  that  he  would  give  them 
a  song  on  the  Duchess  of  Richmond  and  tlie  Duke  of 
Buckingham  :  nothing  could  be  more  acceptable.  "  The 
mob,"  it  is  related,  "  stopped  the  coach  and  the  duchess 
.  .  .  Nay,  so  outrageous  were  the  mob,  that  they  forced 
the  duchess,  who  was  then  the  handsomest  woman  in 


38  CROMWELL'S  SAINTLY   DAUGHTER. 

England,  to  sit  in  the  boot  of  the  coach,  and  to  hear 
him  sing  all  his  impertinent  songs.  Having  left  off 
singini];,  he  told  them  it  was  no  more  than  reason  that 
he  should  present  the  duchess  with  some  of  the  songs. 
So  he  alighted  from  the  stage,  covered  all  over  with 
papers  and  ridiculous  little  pictures.  Having  come  to 
the  coach,  he  took  off  a  black  piece  of  tafleta,  which 
he  always  wore  over  one  of  his  eyes,  when  his  sister 
discovered  immediately  who  he  was,  yet  had  so  much 
presence  of  mind  as  not  to  give  the  least  sign  of  mis- 
trust ;  nay,  she  gave  him  some  very  opprobrious  lan- 
guage, but  was  very  eager  at  snatching  the  papers  he 
threw  into  her  coach.  Among  them  was  a  packet  of 
letters,  which  she  had  no  sooner  got  but  she  went  for- 
ward, the  duke,  at  the  head  of  the  mob,  attending  and 
hallooing  her  a  good  way  out  of  the  town." 

A  still  more  daring  adventure  was  contemplated  also 
by  this  young,  irresistible  duke.  Bridget  Cromwell, 
the  eldest  daughter  of  Oliver,  was,  at  that  time,  a  bride 
of  twenty-six  years  of  age;  having  nuirried,  in  1647, 
the  saintly  Henry  Ireton,  Lord  Deputy  of  Ireland. 
Bridget  was  the  pattern  heroine  of  the  '■'■  unco  (juid," 
the  (i[uintessence  of  all  propriety  ;  the  impersonation 
of  sanctity ;  an  ultra  republican,  who  scarcely  accorded 
to  her  father  the  modest  title  of  Protector.  She  was 
esteemed  by  her  party  a  "  personage  of  sublime  growth  :" 
"  humbled,  not  exalted,"  according  to  Mrs.  Hutchinson, 
])y  her  elevation:  "nevertheless,"  says  tlmt  excellent 
lady,   "as    my   Lady   Ireton  was   Avalkiiig    in  (he  St. 


IX    LOVE   WITH    A   MOUNTEBANK.  39 

James's  Park,  the  Lady  Lambert,  as  proud  as  her  hus- 
band, came  by  Avhcre  she  was,  and  as  the  present  prin- 
cess always  hath  precedency  of  the  relict  of  the  dead,  so 

she  put  l)v  luv  Lndv  Irctoii,  Avlio,  notwithstandinfj  her 

ill.  ^  '  o 

piety  and  Innnility,  was  a  little  grieved  at  the  affront." 
After  this  anecdote  one  cannot  give  much  credence 
to  this  lady's  humility  :  IJridget  Avas,  however,  a  woman 
of  poAvcrful  intellect,  weakened  by  her  extreme,  and,  to 
use  a  now  common  term,  crotchety  opinions.  Like  most 
esprits  forts,  she  Avas  easily  imposed  upon.  One  day 
this  paraLjon  saAv  a  mountebank  dancino;  on  a  staije  in 
the  most  excjuisite  style.  His  fine  shape,  too,  cauglit 
the  attention  of  one  Avho  assumed  to  be  above  all  folly. 
It  is  sometimes  fatal  to  one's  peace  to  look  out  of  a 
AvindoAV  ;  no  one  knoAvs  Aviiat  siglits  may  rivet  or  dis- 
please. Mistress  L-eton  Avas  sitting  at  hor  Avindow  un- 
conscious that  any  one  Avith  the  hated  and  malignant 
name  of  "  Villiers  "  Avas  before  her.  After  some  unholy 
admiration,  she  sent  to  speak  to  the  mummer.  The 
duke  scarcely  kncAv  Avhcthcr  to  trust  himself  in  the 
poAver  of  the  bloodthirsty  Ireton's  bride  or  not — yet  his 
courage — his  love  of  sport — prevailed.  lie  visited  her 
that  evening  :  no  longer,  hoAvever,  in  his  jack-pudding 
coat,  but  in  a  rich  suit,  disguised  Avith  a  cloak  over  it. 
He  Avore  still  a  plaster  over  one  eye,  and  Avas  much  dis- 
posed to  take  it  off,  but  prudence  forbade ;  and  thus  he 
stood  in  the  presence  of  the  prim  and  saintly  Bridget 
Ireton.  The  particulars  of  the  intervicAV  rest  on  his 
statement,  and  they  must  not,  therefore,  be  accepted 


40  VILLIERS  AND  THE  EABBI. 

implicitly.  Mistress  Ireton  is  said  to  liavo  made  ad- 
vances to  the  handsome  incognito.  What  a  triumph 
to  a  man  like  Villiers,  to  have  intrigued  with  my  Lord 
Protector's  sanctified  daughter  !  But  she  inspired  him 
with  disgust.  He  saw  in  her  the  presumption  and  hy- 
pocrisy of  her  father ;  he  hated  her  as  CromAvell's  daugh- 
ter and  Ireton's  wife.  He  told  her,  therefore,  that  he 
was  a  Jew,  and  could  not  by  his  laws  become  the  para- 
mour of  a  Christian  woman.  The  saintly  Bridget  stood 
amazed  ;  she  had  imprudently  let  him  into  some  of  the 
most  important  secrets  of  her  party.  A  Jew  !  It  Avas 
dreadful !  But  how  could  a  person  of  that  persuasion 
be  so  strict,  so  strait-laced  ?  She  probably  entertained 
all  the  horror  of  Jews  which  the  Puritanical  party 
cherished  as  a  virtue ;  forgetting  the  lessons  of  toler- 
ation and  liberality  inculcated  by  Holy  Writ.  She 
sent,  however,  for  a  certain  Jewish  Rabbi  to  converse 
with  the  strano-er.  What  was  the  Duke  of  Buckino;- 
ham's  surprise,  on  visiting  her  one  evening,  to  see  the 
learned  doctor  armed  at  all  points  with  the  Talmud, 
and  thirsting  for  dispute,  by  the  side  of  the  saintly 
Bridget.  He  could  noways  meet  such  a  body  of  con- 
troversy ;  but  thought  it  best  forthwith  to  set  oif  for  the 
Downs.  Before  he  departed  he  wrote,  however,  to  INIjs- 
tress  Ireton,  on  the  plea  that  she  might  wish  to  know 
to  what  tribe  of  Jews  he  belonged.  So  he  sent  her  a 
note  written  with  all  his  native  wit  and  point. ^ 

*  This  incident  is  taken  from  Mailanie  Diinois'  Memoirs,  part  i. 
p.  8G. 


THE  BUCKINtillAM   I'U  TURKS  AND  ESTATE.    41 

Buckinglmin  now  experienced  all  the  miseries  that  a 
man  of  expensive  pleasures  with  a  sequestrated  estate  is 
likely  to  endure.  One  friend  remained  to  watch  over 
his  interests  in  Eni^dand.  This  was  John  Traylman,  a 
servant  of  liis  late  father's,  who  was  left  to  guard  the 
collection  of  pictures  nuide  by  the  late  duke,  and  de- 
posited in  York  House.  That  collection  was,  in  the 
opinion  of  competent  judges,  the  third  in  point  of  value 
in  England,  being  only  inferior  to  those  of  Charles  I. 
and  the  Earl  of  Arundel. 

It  had  been  bought,  with  immense  expense,  partly 
by  the  duke's  agents  in  Italy,  the  IMantua  Gallery  sup- 
plying a  great  portion — partly  in  France — partly  in 
Flanders  ;  and  to  Flanders  a  great  portion  Avas  destined 
now  to  return.  Secretly  and  laboriously  did  old  Trayl- 
man pack  up  and  send  off  these  treasures  to  Antwerp, 
where  now  the  gay  youth  whom  the  aged  domestic  had 
known  from  a  child  was  in  want  and  exile.  The  pic- 
tures were  eagerly  bought  by  a  foreign  collector  named 
Duart.  The  proceeds  gave  poor  Villiers  bread ;  l)ut 
the  noble  works  of  Titian  and  Leonardo  da  Vinci,  and 
others,  were  lost  for  ever  to  England. 

It  must  have  been  very  irritating  to  Villiers  to  know 
that  whilst  he  just  existed  abroad,  the  great  estates  en- 
joyed by  his  fatlier  Avere  being  subjected  to  pillage  by 
Cromwell's  soldiers,  or  sold  for  pitiful  sums  by  the 
Commissioners  appointed  by  the  Parliament  to  break 
up  and  annihilate  many  of  tlie  old  properties  in  Eng- 
land.    Burleigh-on-thc-llill,  the  stately  scat  on  which 


42  YORK  HOUSE. 

tliG  first  duke  had  lavished  thousands,  had  hcen  taken 
by  the  Roundheads.  It  was  so  hirge,  and  presented 
so  long  a  line  of  buildings,  that  the  Parliamentarians 
could  not  hold  it  without  leaving  in  it  a  great  garrison 
and  stores  of  ammunition.  It  was  therefore  burnt,  and 
the  stables  alone  occupied  ;  and  those  even  were  formed 
into  a  house  of  unusual  size.  York  House  was  doubt- 
less marked  out  for  the  next  destructive  decree.  There 
Avas  something  in  the  very  history  of  this  house  which 
might  be  supposed  to  excite  the  wrath  of  the  Round- 
heads. Queen  Mary  (whom  we  must  not,  after  Miss 
Strickland's  admirable  life  of  her,  call  Bloody  Queen 
Mary,  but  who  Avill  always  be  best  known  by  that  un- 
pleasant title)  had  bestowed  York  House  on  the  See  of 
York,  as  a  compensation  for  York  House,  at  Whitehall, 
Avhich  Henry  VIII.  had  taken  from  Wolsey.  It  had 
afterwards  come  into  possession  of  the  Keepers  of  the 
Great  Seal.  Lord  Bacon  was  born  in  York  House,  his 
father  having  lived  there  ;  and  the 

"Greatest,  wisest,  meanest  of  mankind" 

built  here  an  aviary  which  cost  X300.  When  the 
Duke  of  Lennox  wished  to  buy  York  House,  Bacon 
thus  wrote  to  him  : — "  For  this  you  will  pardon  me : 
York  House  is  the  house  where  my  father  died,  and 
where  I  first  breathed;  and  there  will  I  yield  my  last 
breath,  if  it  so  ])lease  God  and  the  King."  It  did 
not,  however,  please  the  King  that  he  should;  the 
house  was  borrowed  only  by  the  first  Duke  of  Buck- 


YORK    HOUSE.  43 

iii^liam  from  the  ^Vrchhislioj)  of"  York,  and  iIk-ii  cx- 
cliani:^('(l  for  anotlicr  seat,  on  the  plea  that  the  duke 
\\duld  want  it  lor  tlie  reception  of  foreign  potentates, 
and  for  entertainments  jiiven  to  royalty. 

The  duke  pulled  it  down  :  and  the  house,  which  was 
erected  as  a  temporary  structure,  was  so  superb  that 
even  Pepys,  tAventy  years  after  it  had  been  left  to  bats 
and  (•o1iwel>s,  speaks  of  it  in  raptures,  as  of  a  place  in 
whieii  the  iirreat  duke's  soul  was  seen  in  every  chandjcr. 
On  the  walls  were  shields  on  which  the  arms  of  ^fanners 
and  of  Villiers — peacocks  and  lions — were  (juartered. 
York  House  Avas  never,  however,  finished;  but  as  the 
lover  of  old  haunts  enters  Buekinghara  Street  in  the 
Strand,  he  will  perceive  an  ancient  Avater-gate,  beau- 
tifully proportioned,  built  by  Inigo  Jones — smoky, 
isolated,  impaired — but  still  speaking  volumes  of  re- 
membrance of  the  glories  of  the  assassinated  duke, 
Avho  had  purposed  to  build  the  Avhole  house  in  that 
style. 

'•'•  Yor'scJiaux,"  as  he  called  it — Y'ork  House — the 
French  ambassador  had  Avritten  Avord  to  his  friends 
at  home,  "  is  the  most  richly  fitted  up  of  any  that  I 
saAv."  The  galleries  and  state  rooms  Avere  graced  by 
tlie  display  of  the  Roman  marbles,  both  busts  and 
statues,  Avhich  the  first  duke  had  bought  from  Rubens; 
Avhilst  in  the  gardens  the  Cain  and  Abel  of  John  of 
Bologna,  given  by  Philip  IV.  of  Spain  to  King  Charles, 
and  by  him  bestowed  on  the  elder  (ieorge  Yilliers,  made 
that  i\i\v  j>l('<(iiaiince  famous.      It  Avas  doomed — as  Avere 


44  VILLIERS  RETURNS  TO  ENGLAND. 

what  Avere  called  the  "  su^Dcrstitious  "  pictures  in  tlio 
house — to  destruction :  henceforth  all  Avas  in  decay 
and  neglect.  "  I  -went  to  see  York  House  and 
gardens,"  Evelyn  writes  in  1655,  "belonging  to  the 
former  greate  Buckingham,  but  now  much  ruined 
throu2;h  nc2;lect." 

Traylman,  doubtless,  kept  George  Villiers  the 
younger  in  full  possession  of  all  that  was  to  happen 
to  that  deserted  tenement  in  which  the  old  man  mourned 
for  the  departed,  and  thought  of  the  absent. 

The  intelligence  which  he  had  soon  to  communicate 
was  all-important.  York  House  was  to  be  occupied 
again;  and  Cromwell  and  his  coadjutors  had  bestowed 
it  on  Fairfax.  The  blow  was  perhaps  softened  by  the 
reflection  that  Fairfax  was  a  man  of  generous  temper ; 
and  that  he  had  an  only  daughter,  Mary  Fairfiix, 
young,  and  an  heiress.  Though  the  daughter  of  a 
Puritan,  a  sort  of  interest  was  attached,  even  by  Cav- 
aliers, to  Mary  Fairftix,  from  her  having,  at  five  years 
of  age,  followed  her  father  through  the  civil  wars  on 
horseback,  seated  before  a  maid-servant ;  and  having, 
on  her  journey,  frequently  fainted,  she  was  so  ill  as  to 
have  been  left  in  a  house  by  the  roadside,  her  father 
never  expecting  to  see  her  again. 

In  reference  to  this  young  girl,  then  about  eighteen 
years  of  age,  Buckingham  now  formed  a  plan.  lie 
resolved  to  return  to  England  disguised,  to  offer  his 
hand  to  Mary  Fairfax,  and  so  recover  his  property 
through  the  influence  of  Fairfax.     He  was  confident 


POOR  MAliY    FAIRFAX!  45 

of  liis  own  attractions;  and  indeed,  from  every  account, 
he  appears  to  have  been  one  of  those  reckless,  liand- 
some,  specuhitive  characters  that  often  take  the  fancy 
of  better  men  than  themselves.  "  He  had,"  says 
Burnet,  "  no  sort  of  literature,  only  he  -was  dra^vn 
into  chymistry ;  and  for  some  years  he  thought  lie 
was  very  near  the  finding  of  tlic  ])hilosopher's  stone, 
which  had  the  effect  that  attends  on  all  such  men  as  he 
was,  when  they  are  drawn  in,  to  lay  out  for  it.  lie  liad 
no  princij)les  of  religion,  virtue,  or  friendship  ;  pleasure, 
frolic,  or  extravagant  diversion,  was  all  he  laid  to  heart. 
He  was  true  to  nothing ;  for  he  was  not  true  to  himself. 
He  had  no  steadiness  nor  conduct ;  he  could  keep  no 
secret,  nor  execute  any  design  without  spoiling  it ;  he 
could  never  fix  his  thoughts,  nor  govern  his  estate, 
tliough  then  the  greatest  in  England.  He  was  bred 
about  the  king,  and  for  many  years  he  had  a  great 
ascendant  over  him  ;  but  he  spoke  of  liim  to  all  persons 
with  tluit  contempt,  that  at  last  lie  drew  a  lasting  dis- 
grace upon  himself.  And  he  at  length  ruined  both 
body  and  mind,  fortune  and  rei)utation,  equally." 

This  was  a  sad  prospect  for  poor  Mary  Fairfax,  but 
certainlv  if"  in  their  choice 

"  ^Veak  women  go  astray, 


Their  stai-s  are  more  in  fault  than  they," 

and  she  Avas  less  to  blame  in  lier  choice  than  her 
father,  who  ought  to  have  advised  her  against  the 
marriage.     "Where  and  how  they  met    is  not  known. 


46  YOEK  HOUSE  SOLD. 

Mary  was  not  attractive  in  person :  she  was  in  her 
youth  little,  brown,  and  thin,  but  became  a  "  short 
fat  body,"  as  De  Grammont  tells  us,  in  her  early 
married  life;  in  the  later  period  of  her  existence  she 
was  described  by  the  Vicomtesse  de  Longueville  as  a 
"little  round  crumpled  woman,  very  fond  of  finery;" 
and  she  adds  that,  on  visiting  the  duchess  one  day,  she 
found  her,  though  in  mourning,  in  a  kind  of  loose  robe 
over  her,  all  edged  and  laced  with  gold.  So  much  for 
a  Puritan's  daughter ! 

To  this  insipid  personage  the  duke  presented  himself. 
She  soon  liked  him,  and  in  spite  of  his  outrageous  in- 
fidelities, continued  to  like  him  after  their  marriaire. 

He  carried  his  point :  Mary  Fairfax  became  his  wife 
on  the  6th  of  September,  1675,  and,  by  the  influence 
of  Fairfax,  his  estate,  or,  at  all  events,  a  portion  of 
the  revenues,  about  X4000  a  year,  it  is  said,  Avcre 
restored  to  him.  Nevertheless,  it  is  mortifying  to  find 
that  in  1072,  he  sold  York  House,  in  which  his  father 
had  taken  such  pride,  for  X30,000,  The  house  Avas 
pulled  down ;  streets  Avere  erected  on  tlie  gardens : 
George  Street,  Villiers  Street,  Duke  Street,  Buck- 
ingham street,  Off"  Alley,  recall  tlie  name  of  the  ill- 
starred  George,  first  duke,  and  of  his  needy,  profligate 
son ;  but  the  only  trace  of  the  real  greatness  of  tlie 
family  importance  tluis  swept  away  is  in  the  motto  in- 
scribed on  tlic  point  of  old  Inigo's  water-gate  tOAvards 
the  street:  '"''Fidei  eoiicida  crux.''  It  is  sad  for  all 
good  royalists  to    refloc't    that    it   Avas    not    the    rabid 


VILLIEKS   IN  THE  TOWKIl.  47 

lloundhcad,  but  a  degenerate  Cavalier,  -who  sold  and 
thus  destroyed  York   House. 

The  marriage  with  Mary  Fairfax,  though  one  of  in- 
terest solely,  was  not  a  mesalliance :  tier  father  was  con- 
nected by  the  female  side  with  the  Earls  of  Rutland ; 
he  was  also  a  man  of  a  generous  spirit,  as  he  had  shown, 
in  handing  over  to  the  Countess  of  Derby  the  ivnts 
of  the  Isle  of  Man,  wliich  had  been  granted  to  him 
by  the  Parliament.  In  a  similar  spirit  he  was  not 
sorry  to  restore  York  House  to  the  Duke  of  Buck- 
ingham. 

Cromwell,  however,  was  highly  exasperated  by  the 
nuptials  between  Mary  Fairfax  and  Villiers,  which 
took  place  at  Nun-Appleton,  near  Y'^ork,  one  of  Fair- 
fax's estates.  The  Protector  had,  it  is  said,  intended 
Villiers  for  one  of  his  own  daughters.  Upon  what 
plea  lie  acted  it  is  not  stated :  he  committed  Villiers 
to  the  Tower,  where  ho  remained  until  the  death  of 
Oliver,  and  the  accession  of  Richard  Cromwell. 

In  vain  did  Fairfax  solicit  his  release:  Cromwell 
refused  it,  and  A'illiers  remained  in  durance  until 
the  alxlication  of  Richard  Cromwell,  wlien  he  was 
set  at  liberty,  l)ut  not  without  the  following  con- 
ditions, date<l  February  21st,  1G58— 9  : — 

"The  lnim1)lc  petition  of  George  Duke  of  Bucking- 
ham was  this  (lav  read.  Resolved  that  George  Duke 
of  Buckingham,  now  prisoner  at  Windsor  Castle,  upon 
his  engagement  upon  his  honor  at  the  bar  of  this 
House,  and    upon    the   engagement   of    TiOrd    Fairfrtx 


48  ABRAHAM  COWLEY,  THE  POET, 


in  £20,000  that  the  said  duke  shall  peaceably  deinain 
himself  for  the  future,  and  shall  not  join  Avith,  or  abet, 
or  have  any  correspondence  with,  any  of  the  enemies  of 
the  Lord  Protector,  and  of  this  Gommonwealth,  in  any 
of  the  parts  beyond  the  sea,  or  within  this  Common- 
wealth, shall  be  discharged  of  his  imprisonment  and 
restraint ;  and  that  the  Governor  of  Windsor  Castle 
be  required  to  bring  the  Duke  of  Buckingham  to  the 
bar  of  this  House  on  Wednesday  next,  to  engage  his 
honor  accordingly.  Ordered,  that  the  security  of 
X20,000  to  be  given  by  the  Lord  Fairfax,  on  the 
behalf  of  the  Duke  of  Buckingham,  be  taken  in  the 
name  of  His  Highness  the  Lord  Protector." 

During  his  incarceration  at  Windsor,  Buckingham 
had  a  companion,  of  whom  many  a  better  man  might 
have  been  envious :  this  w;is  Abraham  Cowley,  an  old 
college  friend  of  the  duke's.  Cowley  was  the  son  of  a 
grocer,  and  owed  his  entrance  into  academic  life  to 
havino;  been  a  King's  Scholar  at  Westminster.  One 
day  he  happened  to  take  up  from  his  mother's  parlor 
window  a  copy  of  Spenser's  "  Faerie  Queene."  He 
eagerly  perused  the  delightful  volume,  though  he  Avas 
then  only  twelve  years  old  :  and  this  im})ulsc  being 
given  to  his  mind,  became  at  fifteen  a  reciter  of  verses. 
His  "Poetical  Blossoms,"  published  whilst  he  was  still 
at  school,  gave,  however,  no  foretaste  of  his  future  em- 
inence. He  proceeded  to  Trinity  College,  Cambridge, 
where  his  friendship  witli  Villiers  was  formed;  and 
where,  perhaps,  from  that  circumstance,  Cowley's  pre- 


COWLKV    AND    \lLLli:ii.S.  4'J 

<liIo(-*tii)iis  fur  ilic  cause  oi' the  Stuarts  was  ripciRMl  into 
loyalty. 

No  two  fliaracters  coulil  lie  more  dissiiuilar  tlian  those 
of  Ahraliaiu  Cowley  and  George  Villiers.  Cowley  was 
(luiet,  modest,  sol)er,  oi"  a  tliou<flitful,  pliilosopliical 
turn,  and  ol'  an  afiretionate  nature;  neither  boasting 
of  his  oAvn  merits  n<>r  lU'preciating  others.  lie  was  the 
friend  of  Lucius  Carv,  Lord  Falkland ;  and  vet  he 
loved,  though  lie  must  have  condemned,  George  Vil- 
liers. It  is  not  unlikely  that,  whilst  Cowley  imparted 
his  love  of  poetry  to  Villiers,  Villiers  may  have  in- 
spired the  ])ensive  and  IdamelesS  poet  Avith  a  love  of 
that  display  of  wit  then  in  vogue,  and  heiglitencd  that 
sense  of  humor  which  speaks  forth  in  some  of  Cow- 
ley's productions.  Few  authors  suggest  so  many  new 
thoughts,  really  his  own,  as  Cowley.  "  His  works," 
it  has  been  said,  "  are  a  flower-garden  run  to  wee<ls, 
l)iit  the  flowers  are  numerous  and  brilliant,  and  a  search 
after  them  will  repay  the  pains  of  a  collector  who  is  not 
too  indolent  or  fastidious." 

As  Cowley  and  his  friend  passed  the  weary  hours  in 
durance,  many  an  old  tale  could  the  poet  tell  the  peer 
of  stirring  times;  for  Cowley  luid  accompanied  Charles 
I.  in  many  a  perilous  journey,  and  had  protected  Queen 
Henrietta  Maria  in  her  escape  to  France  :  through  Cow'- 
ley  had  tlic  correspondence  of  the  royal  pair,  when 
separated,  been  carried  on.  The  poet  had  before  suf- 
fered imprisonment  for  his  loyalty  ;  and,  to  disguise  his 
actual  occupation,  liad  obtained  the  degree  of  Doctor 

Vol.    I.— 4 


50  THE  GREATEST  ORNAMENT  OF  WHITEHALL. 

of  Medicine,  and  assumed  the  character  of  a  physician, 
on  the  strength  of  knowing  the  virtues  of  a  few  phmts. 

Many  a  hiugh,  doubtless,  had  Buckingham  at  the 
expense  of  Dr.  Cowley  :  however,  in  later  days,  the 
duke  proved  a  true  friend  to  the  poet,  in  helping  to 
procure  for  him  the  lease  of  a  fiirm  at  Chertsey  from 
the  queen,  and  here  Cowley,  rich  upon  .£300  a  year, 
ended  his  days. 

For  some  time  after  Buckingham's  release,  he  lived 
quietly  and  respectably  at  Nun-Appleton,  with  General 
Fairfax  and  the  vapid  Mary.  But  the  Restoration — 
the  first  dawnings  of  which  have  been  referred  to  in 
the  commencement  of  tliis  biography — ruined  him, 
body  and   mind. 

lie  was  made  a  Lord  of  the  Bedchamber,  a  Member 
of  the  Privy  Council,  and  afterwards  Master  of  the 
Ilorse,^  and  Lord  Lieutenant  of  Yorkshire.  He  lived 
in  great  magnificence  at  Wallingford  House,  a  tene- 
ment next  to  York  House,  intended  to  be  the  habitable 
and  useful  appendage  to  that  palace. 

He  Avas  henceforth,  until  he  proved  treacherous  to 
his  sovereign,  the  brightest  ornament  of  Whitehall. 
Beauty  of  person  was  hereditary  :  his  fiither  was  styled 
the  "  handsomest-bodied  man  in  England,"  and  George 
Villiers  the  younger  e(i[ualled  George  Villiers  the  elder 
in  all  personal  accomplishments.  When  he  entered  the 
Presence-Chamber  all  eyes  followed  him  ;  every  move- 

'  The  duke  became  Master  of  the  Horse  in  1G88 :  he  paid  £20,000 
to  the  Duke  of  Albemarle  for  the  post. 


LL(  KLM.il  I  A.MS   WIT   AM)    IIKAITV.  51 

niont  was  "j^raccfiil  and  stately.  Sir  John  Rercsby  pro- 
nounco<l  Jiim  ''to  lit- iIk-  lincst  f^cntleniaii  lie  oversaw." 
"lie  was  born,"  Madaiiio  Dnnoi.s  dt'clared,  "for  fral- 
lantry  and  ina<.5nificence."  His  wit  was  faultk-ss,  but 
liis  iiiaiiiicrs  enj^agin^ ;  yet  li is  sallies  often  dcsccndrd 
into  bufl"oonery,  and  he  sj)ai-eil  no  om-  in  his  merry 
moods.  One  evenini^  a  ])lay  of  Dryden"s  Avas  re])re- 
sented.     An  actress  had  to  spout  forth  this  line — 

"  ^ly  wound  is  pjrcat  because  it  is  so  small !" 

Slie  gave  it  out  with  pathos,  paused,  and  was  theatri- 
cally distressed.  Buckingham  was  seated  in  one  of  the 
boxes.  lie  rose,  all  eyes  were  fixed  upon  a  face  well 
known  in  all  gay  assemblies,  in  a  tone  of  burlestjue  he 
ansAvered — 

"Then  'twould  be  greater  were  it  none  at  all." 

Instantly  the  audience  laughed  at  the  Duke's  tone  of 
ridicule,  and  the  poor  Avoman  Avas  hissed  off  the  stage. 
The  king  him.self  did  not  escape  Buckingham's 
shafts;  Avhilst  Lord  Chancellor  Clarendon  fell  a  vietim 
to  his  ridicule:  nothing  could  Avithstand  it.  There, 
not  in  that  iniquitous  gallery  at  Whitehall,  Imt  in  the 
king's  i)rivy  chambers,  A^illiers  might  be  seen,  in  all 
the  radiance  of  his  matured  beauty.  Ilis  face  Avas  long 
and  oval,  Avith  sleepy,  yet  glistening  eyes,  over  Avhieh 
large  arched  eyebroAvs  seemed  to  contract  a  broAv  on 
Avhich  the  curls  of  a  massive  Avig  (which  fell  almost 
to  his  shoulders)  hung  Ioav.     Ills  nose  Avas  long,  avcII 


52  FLEC'KNOE'S  OPINION. 

formed,  and  flexible  ;  liis  lips  tliin  and  compressed,  and 
defined,  as  the  custom  Avas,  by  two  very  sliort,  fine, 
black  patches  of  hair,  looking  more  like  strips  of  stick- 
ing-plaster than  a  moustache.  As  he  made  his  rover- 
ence,  his  rich  robes  fell  over  a  faultless  form.  He  was 
a  beau  to  the  very  fold  of  the  cambric  band  round  his 
throat ;  with  long  ends  of  the  richest,  closest  point  that 
was  ever  rummaged  out  from  a  foreign  nunnery  to  be 
placed  on  the  person  of  this  sacrilegious  sinner. 

Behold,  now,  how  he  changes.  Villiers  is  Villiers 
no  longer.  He  is  Clarendon,  w^alking  solemnly  to  the 
Court  of  the  Star  Chamber  :  a  pair  of  bellows  is  hang- 
ing l)efore  him  for  the  purse ;  Colonel  Titus  is  walking 
with  a  fire  shovel  on  his  shoulder,  to  represent  a  mace ; 
the  king  himself  a  capital  mimic,  is  splitting  his  sides 
with  laughter;  the  courtiers  are  fairly  in  a  roar.  Tlien 
how  he  was  wont  to  divert  the  king  with  his'  descrij)- 
tions  !  "■  Ipswich,  for  instance,"  he  said,  '■'•  was  a  town 
Avithout  inhabitants — a  river  it  had  w^ithout  water — 
streets  without  names ;  and  it  was  a  place  where  asses 
wore  boots:"  alluding  to  the  asses,  wlion  employed  in 
rolling  Lord  Hereford's  bowlinn;  green,  liaving  boots  on 
their  feet  to  prevent  their  injuring  the  turf. 

Flecknoe,  the  poet,  describes  the  duke  at  this  period, 
in  "Euterpe  Revived" — 

"The  p;all!int'st  person,  miuI  tlie  nolilest  inindo, 
In  all  the  world  his  |ninyo  could  ever  ("mde, 
Or  to  jtarticipate  his  private  cares, 
Or  hear  (he  i)uhlic  weight  of  liis  aOiiirs, 


Till-;  ( OUNTESS  OF  SIIUKWSnUKY.  5,'] 

Like  w(.'ll-l)nilt  anlit's,  stronger  witli  tluir  wcij^lit, 
And  WL'Il-lmill  minds,  the  steadier  witii  llieir  iieigiit ; 
Siieli   was  liie  cDiiiiHisition  and   frame 
O'  liie  nol^le  and  tiie  gallant  lUiekingham." 

The  praise,  Imwcvor,  oven  in  tla-  duke's  best  days, 
was  (i\crcli:iri:('(l.  A'illiers  was  no  "' well-built  tirch," 
iinr  coulil  Chark'S  trust  to  tlie  fidelity  of  one  so  versa- 
tile tui- an  liuuf.  Jjesides,  the  moral  eliaracter  of  Vil- 
liers  must  have  prevented  him,  even  in  those  days, 
from  bearing  "  the  ])ublie  weight  of  affairs." 

A  scandtilous  intrigue  soon  proved  the  unsoundness 
of  Fleeknoe's  tribute.  Amongst  the  most  licentious 
beauties  of  the  court  was  Anna  Maria,  Countess  of 
Shrewsbury,  tlie  daughter  of  rvol)ert  Brudenel,  Earl 
of  Cardiiran,  and  the  wife  of  Francis,  Earl  of  Shrews- 
burv  :  amonsist  niaiiv  shameless  women  she  was  the 
most  shameless,  and  her  face  seems  to  have  well  ex- 
pressed her  mind.  In  the  round,  ftiir  visage,  with  its 
languishing  eyes,  and  rnll.  pouting  mouth,  there  is 
something  voluptuous  and  l)old.  The  forehead  is 
broad,  Imt  low;  and  the  wavy  hair,  with  its  tendril 
curls,  comes  down  almost  to  the  fine  arched  eyebrows, 
and  then,  falling  into  masses,  sets  off"  Avhitc  shoulders 
which  seem  to  designate  an  elegant  amount  of  cmhon- 
jii'iiif.  There  is  nothing  elevated  in  the  whole  coun- 
tenance, as  Lely  has  painted  her,  and  her  history  is  a 
disgrace  to  her  age  ;iiiil  time. 

She'lnid  iiiiineious  lovers  (not  in  the  refined  sense  of 
the  word),  and.  at  last,  took  up  witli  Thomas  Killigrew. 


54      DUEL  WITH  THE  EAKL  OF  SHKEWSBURY. 

He  luid  been,  like  Villiers,  a  royalist :  first  a  page  to 
Charles  I.,  next  a  companion  of  Charles  II.,  in  exile. 
He  married  the  fair  Cecilia  Croft ;  yet  his  morals  were 
so  vicious  that  even  in  the  Court  of  Venice  to  which  he 
was  accredited,  in  order  to  borrow  money  from  the  mer- 
chants of  that  city,  he  was  too  profligate  to  remain. 
He  came  back  with  Charles  II.,  and  was  Master  of 
the  Revels,  or  King's  Jester,  as  the  court  considered 
him,  though  without  any  regular  appointment,  dur- 
ing his  life :  the  butt,  at  once,  and  the  satirist  of 
Whitehall. 

It  Avas  Killigrew's  wit  and  descriptive  powers  which, 
when  heightened  by  wine,  were  in^conceivably  great, 
that  induced  Villiers  to  select  Lady  Shrewsbury  for  the 
object  of  his  admiration.  When  Killigrew  perceived 
that  he  was  supplanted  by  Villiers,  he  become  frantic 
with  rage,  and  poured  out  the  bitterest  invectives 
against  the  countess.  The  result  Avas  that,  one  night, 
returning  from  the  Duke  of  York's  apartments  at  St. 
James's,  three  passes  with  a  sword  were  made  at  him 
through  his  chair,  and  one  of  them  pierced  his  arm. 
This,  and  other  occurrences,  at  last  aroused  the  at- 
tention of  Lord  Shrewsbury,  who  had  hitherto  never 
doubted  his  wife :  he  challenged  the  Duke  of  Bucking- 
ham ;  and  his  infamous  wife,  it  is  said,  held  her  para- 
mour's horse,  disguised  as  a  page.  Lord  Shrcwsljury 
was  killed,^  and  tlie  scandahtus  intimacy  went  (tn  as 

'  T\\r  duel  will)  till.'  Ivirl  of  SIiicwsIimit  tooli  jilai'C  ITlli  .Jiimiarv, 
1667-8. 


VILLIEKS  AS  A    I'()I:T.  5o 

before.  No  one  but  tbe  (lueen,  no  one  but  tbe  Duclicss 
of  l>uckin;j;b;un,  ai>peare(l  shocked  at  this  tragedy,  and 
no  one  minded  their  reuinrks,  or  joined  in  their  indig- 
nation :  all  moral  sense  was  suspended,  or  wliolly  stifled  ; 
and  Villiers  gloried  in  his  depravity,  more  witty,  more 
amusing,  more  fashionable  than  ever ;  and  yet  he  seems, 
by  the  best-known  and  most  extolled  of  his  poems,  to 
have  had  some  conception  of  what  a  real  and  worthy 
attachment  might  be. 

The  following  verses  are  to  his  "Mistress": — 

"  Wliat  :i  dull  fool  was  I 

To  tiiink  so  gross  a  lie, 
As  that  I  ever  was  in  love  before! 
I  have,  perhaps,  known  one  or  two, 

AVith  whom  I  was  content  to  he 

At  that  whicii  they  call  keeping  company. 
But  after  all  that  they  could  do, 

I  still  c<mld  he  with  more. 

Their  absence  never  made  me  slied  a  tear ; 

And  I  can  truly  swear. 
That,  till  my  eyes  first  gazed  on  yon, 

I  ne'er  beheld  the  thing  I  could  adore. 

"A  world  of  things  must  curiously  be  sought: 
A  world  of  things  must  l)e  togeciier  brought 

To  make  up  charms  which  have  the  power  to  move, 

Through  a  discerning  eye,  true  love; 

That  is  a  master-piece  above 

What  only  looks  and  shape  can  do; 
There  must  be  wit  and  juiigmcut  too, 

dreatness  of  thought,  and  wortii,  wliidi  draw, 

l''r<iiii   iIk'   whole   world,   respect  and  awe. 


56  VILLIEES  AS  A   POET. 

"  She  that  would  raise  a  noble  love  nuist  find 
Ways  to  bcf,'et  a  passion  for  her  mind ; 
She  mnst  be  that  which  she  to  be  would  seem, 
For  all  true  love  is  grounded  on  esteem: 
Plainness  and  truth  gain  more  a  generous  heart 
Than  all  the  crooked  subtleties  of  art. 
Slie  must  be — what  said  I? — she  mast  be  you: 
None  but  yourself  that  miracle  can  do. 
At  least,  I'm  sure,  thus  nuich  I  plainly  see, 
Kone  but  yourself  e'er  did  it  upon  nie. 
'Tis  you  alone  tliat  can  my  heart  subdue. 
To  you  alone  it  always  shall  be  true." 

Tlie  next  lines  arc  also  remarkable  for  the  delicacy 
and  liappj  turn  of  the  expressions : — 

"Though  Phillis,  from  prevailing  charms, 
Have  forc'd  my  Delia  from  my  arms, 
Think  not  your  contpiest  to  maintain 
By  rigor  or  unjust  disdain. 
In  vain,  fair  nymph,  in  vain  you  strive. 
For  Love  doth  seldom  Hope  survive. 
My  heart   may  languish  for  a  time, 
As  all  iK'autics  in  their  prime 
Have  justilied  such  cruelly, 
By  the  same  fate  tiiat  coiKpiered  me. 
When  age  shall  come,  at  whose  conuiiaud 
Those  troops  of  beauty  must  (lisl)and — 
A   rival's  strength  once  took  awav. 
What  slave's  so  didl  as  to  obey? 
But  if  you'll  learn  a  noble  way 
To  kec))  his  emjiirt-  fVom  decay, 
And  there  for  evi'r   lix  your  thri»ne, 
Be  kind,   but    kind   to  uic  alone." 

Like   his   father,    who    niiiHMJ   himself   l)v    hiiildinn;. 


VlLLIi:iiS    AS    A    ItUAMATIST.  -07 

Villicrs  liad  a  inonom.ania  for  bricks  an<l  mortar,  yet 
lie  foiiii  1  time  to  .write  "The  Rehearsal,"  a  play  on 
^vliicli  Mr.  lu'cil  ill  liis  "Dramatic  Biography"  makes 
the  following  observation  :  ''  It  is  so  perfect  a  master- 
piece in  its  way,  and  so  truly  original,  that  notwith- 
standing its  piMiligioiis  success,  even  the  task  of  imi- 
tation, wliich  most  kiinls  of  excellence  have  invited 
inferior  geniuses  to  undertake,  has  appeared  as  too 
ar(bious  to  be  attempted  with  regard  to  this,  which 
througli  a  whole  century  stands  alone,  notwithstanding 
that  the  very  plays  it  was  written  expressly  to  ridicule 
arc  forgotten,  and  the  taste  it  was  meant  to  expose 
totally  exploded." 

The  reverses  of  fortune  Avhicb  brouglit  George 
Villicrs  to  abject  misery  were  therefore,  in  a  very 
great  measure,  due  to  his  own  misconduct,  his  de- 
pravity, his  waste  of  life,  liis  perversion  of  no])lc 
mental  powers:  yet  in  many  respects  lie  was  in  ad- 
vance of  his  age.  He  advocated,  in  the  House  of 
Lords,  toleration  to  Dissenters.  lie  wrote  a  "  Short 
Discourse  on  the  Ileasonablene-ss  of  Glen's  having  a 
Religion,  or  Worshi[)  of  God;"  yet,  such  was  liis 
inconsistency,  tliat  in  spite  of  these  works,  and  of 
one  styled  a  "  Demonstration  of  the  Deity,"  written 
a  sliort  time  bcfoi-c  Ids  death,  he  assisted  T>onl 
Rochester    in    his    atheistic    ptx'ui    upon   "Nothing." 

Ibitlcr,  the  author  of  lludil)ras,  too  truly  said  of 
Xiliicrs  '•  tliat  he  had  stiuli(.'(l  tlte  whole  hodif  of  vice  ;' 
a  most  fearful  censure — a  most  significant  descriptioii 


58  A  FEAEFUL  CENSURE. 

of  a  bad  man.  "His  parts,"  he  adds,  "are  dispro- 
portionate to  the  whole,  and  like  a  monster,  he  has 
more  of  some,  and  less  of  others,  than  he  should  have. 
He  has  pulled  down  all  that  nature  raised  in  him,  and 
built  himself  up  again  after  a  model  of  his  own.  He 
has  dammed  up  all  those  lights  that  nature  made  into  the 
noblest  prospects  of  the  world,  and  opened  other  little 
blind  loopholes  backward  by  turning  day  into  night, 
and  night  into  day." 

The  satiety  and  consequent  misery  produced  by  this 
terrible  life  are  ably  described  by  Butler.  And  it  was 
perhaps  partly  this  wearied,  worn-out  spirit  that  caused 
Villiers  to  rush  madly  into  politics  for  excitement.  In 
1666  he  asked  for  the  office  of  Lord  President  of  the 
North ;  it  was  refused :  ho  became  disaffected,  raised 
mutinies,  and,  at  last,  excited  the  indignation  of  his 
too-indulgent  sovereign.  Charles  dismissed  him  from 
his  office,  after  keeping  him  for  some  time  in  confine- 
ment. After  this  epoch  little  is  heard  of  Buckingham 
but  what  is  disgraceful.  He  was  again  restored  to 
Whitehall,  and,  according  to  Pepys,  even  closeted 
with  Charles,  whilst  the  Duke  of  York  was  excluded. 
A  certain  acquaintance  of  the  duke's  remonstrated 
witli  liim  upon  t]ie  course  which  Charles  now  took 
in  Parliament.  "  How  often  have  you  said  to  me," 
this  person  remarked,  "  that  the  king  was  a  weak 
man,  unable  to  govern,  but  to  bo  governed,  and  that 
you  coidd  conunainl  liini  as  you  liked?  Wliy  do  you 
suffer  liim    to   do   these   thinirs?"' 


VILLIEKS'S   INFLUENCE  IN    J'AKLIAMENT.       5'J 

"  Wliy,"  :iiis\V('rc(l  tlic  duke,  "I  do  suHIt  liiiii  to 
do  tlicsc  tliiiiiis,  that  I  may  lioreafter  the  better  coin- 
iiiaiid  him."'  A  reply  which  betrays  the  most  depraved 
](iiii(iph'  (if  action,  wlicthcr  towards  a  sovereign  or  a 
IViciid,  that  can  he  expressed.  Jlis  influence  was  fur 
some  lime  supreme,  yet  he  Ijecame  tlie  leader  of  the 
()])p()siti(»ii,  and  inviteil  to  his  table  the  discontented 
peers,  to  whom  lie  satirized  tlie  court,  and  condemned 
tlu-  kin^^'s  want  of  attention  to  business.  Whilst  the 
theatre  was  ringing  with  laughter  at  the  inimitable 
character  of  Baycs  in  the  "Rehearsal,"  the  House 
of  Lords  was  listening  with  profound  attention  to 
the  clo({Ucncc  that  entranced  tlieir  faculties,  making 
wrong  seem  right,  for  Buckingham  was  ever  heard 
witli  attention. 

Taking  into  account  his  mode  of  existence,  "  which," 
says  Clarendon,  "  Avas  a  life  by  night  more  than  by  day, 
in  all  the  liberties  that  nature  could  desire  and  wit  in- 
vent," it  was  astonishing  how  extensive  an  influence 
he  had  in  both  Houses  of  Parliament.  ''  His  rank 
and  condescension,  the  pleasantness  of  his  humors 
and  conversation,  and  tlie  extravagance  and  keenness 
of  his  wit,  unrestrained  by  modesty  or  religion,  caused 
persons  of  all  o])inions  and  dispositions  to  be  fond  of 
his  company,  and  to  imagine  tliat  these  levities  and 
vanities  would  wear  oil'  wilh  age,  and  that  there  Avould 
be  enough  of  good  left  to  make  him  useful  to  his  coun- 
try, for  which  he  pretended  a  wondci  lul  affection."" 

But    this   brilliant    career  was   soon    checkeil.      The 


GO  A  SCENE  IN   THE  LORDS. 

varnish  over  the  hollow  character  of  this  extraordinary 
man  was  eventually  rubbed  off.  We  find  the  first  hint 
of  that  famous  coalition  styled  the  Cabal  in  Pepys's 
Diary,  and  henceforth  the  duke  must  be  regarded 
as  a  ruined  man. 

"He"  (Sir  H.  Cholmly)  "tells  me  that  the  Duke 
of  Buckingham  his  crimes,  as  far  as  he  knows,  are 
his  being  of  a  cabal  with  some  discontented  persons 
of  the  late  House  of  Commons,  and  opposing  the 
desires  of  the  kin;i|;  in  all  liis  matters  in  that  House ; 
and  endeavoring  to  become  popular,  and  advising  how 
the  Commons'  House  should  proceed,  and  how  he 
would  order  the  House  of  Lords,  And  he  hath  been 
endeavoring  to  have  the  king's  nativity  calculated ; 
which  was  done,  and  tlie  fcHow  now  in  the  Tower 
about  it.  .  .  .  This  silly  lord  hath  provoked,  by  his 
ill  carriage,  the  Duke  of  York,  my  Lord  Chancellor, 
and  all  the  great  persons,  and  therefore  most  likely 
will  die." 

One  day,  in  the  House  of  Lords,  during  a  conference 
between  the  two  Houses,  Buckingham  leaned  rudely 
over  the  shoulder  of  Henry  Pierrepont  Marquis  of 
Dorchester.  Lord  Dorchester  merely  removed  liis 
elbow.  Then  the  duke  asked  him  if  he  was  uneasy. 
"Yes,"  the  martjuis  r('])li('d,  adding,  ''the  duke  dared 
not  do  this  if  he  Avere  anywhere  else."  I'lickingham 
retorted,  ''Yes,  he  would:  and  he  was  a,  better  man 
than  HIV  lord  inav<|uis  :""  on  which  l)orcliester  told  him 
that  he  lied.     On  this  Buckinjiliam  struck  off  Dorches- 


Till':  cai;al.  G1 

tcr's  liat,  seiz('(l  liim  ],y  ihc  |)(  riwi;.',  jmllcd  it  aside, 
mill  litld  liiiii.  'I'lic  lioid  ('lianilicrlain  and  otlit-rs  in- 
terposed and  sent  tlieni  lidtli  to  the  Tdwer.  Nevertlie- 
less,  not  a  month  aficrwards,  I'epys  speaks  of  seeinj^ 
the  (hike's  phiy  of  "  The  Chances  "  acted  at  Whiteliall. 
"A  i^ood  phiy,"  he  condescends  to  say,  "I  find  it,  and 
the  actors  most  good  in  it;  and  pretty  to  hear  Knipp 
sing  in  tlie  phiy  very  properly  'All  night  I  v/eepe,' 
and  sung  it  admiraljly.  The  \vliolc  play  pleases  mc 
wvW  :  and  most  of  all,  the  sight  of  many  fine  ladies, 
amongst  others,  my  Lady  Castlcmainc  and  Mrs.  ]Mid- 
dleton." 

The  whole  management  of  puhlic  nfTairs  was,  at  this 
period,  intrusted  to  five  persons,  and  hence  the  famous 
coiiihination,  the  united  letters  of  which  formed  the 
word  "Cahal:" — Cliflord,  Arlington,  Buckingham, 
Ashley,  and  Lauderdale.  Their  reprehensihle  schemes, 
their  desperate  characters,  rendered  them  the  oj)pro- 
hriiim  of  their  age,  and  the  ohjects  of  censure  to  all  pos- 
terity. Whilst  matters  were  in  this  state  a  daring 
outrage,  which  spoke  fearfully  of  the  lawless  state  of 
the  times,  Avas  ascribed,  though  wrongly,  to  Bucking- 
ham. The  Duke  of  Ormond,  the  object  of  his  inveter- 
ate hatred,  was  at  that  time  Lord  Lieutenant  of  Ireland. 
Colonel  r>lood, — a  disaffected  disbanded  officer  of  the 
Commonwealth,  who  had  been  attainted  for  a  conspir- 
acy in  Ireland,  but  had  escaped  pnnisliment, — came  to 
England,  and  acted  as  a  spy  for  the  "  Cabal,"  who  did 
not  hesitate  to  countenance  this  darins;  scoundrel. 


62    THE  DUKE  OF  ORMOND  IN  DANGER. 

His  first  exploit  was  to  attack  the  Duke  of  Ormond's 
coach  one  night  in  St.  James's  Street :  to  secure  his 
person,  bind  him,  put  him  on  liorseback  after  one  of 
his  accomplices,  and  carry  him  to  Tyburn,  where  he 
meant  to  hang  his  grace.  On  their  way,  hoAvever,  Or- 
mond,  by  a  violent  eftort,  threw  himself  on  the  ground; 
a  scuffle  ensued :  the  duke's  servants  came  up,  and 
after  receiving  the  fire  of  Blood's  pistols,  the  duke 
escaped.  Lord  Ossory,  the  Duke  of  Ormond's  son,  on 
going  afterward  to  court,  met  Buckingham,  and  ad- 
dressed him  in  these  words  : — 

"  My  lord,  I  know  well  that  you  are  at  the  bottom 
of  this  late  attempt  on  my  father;  but  I  give  you 
warning,  if  he  by  any  means  come  to  a  violent  end,  I 
shall  not  be  at  a  loss  to  know  the  author.  I  shall  con- 
sider you  as  an  assassin,  and  shall  treat  you  as  such ; 
and  wherever  I  meet  you  I  shall  pistol  you,  though 
you  stood  behind  the  king's  cliair;  and  I  tell  it  you  in 
his  Majesty's  presence,  that  you  may  be  sure  I  shall 
not  fail  of  performance." 

Blood's  next  feat  was  to  carry  off  from  the  Tower 
the  crown  jewels.  He  was  overtaken  and  arrested: 
and  was  then  asked  to  name  his  accomplices.  "No," 
he  replied,  "  the  fear  of  danger  shall  never  tempt  me 
to  deny  guilt  or  to  betray  a  friend."  Charles  II.,  with 
undignified  curiosity,  wished  to  see  the  culprit.  On 
inquiring  of  Blood  how  he  dared  to  make  so  bold  an 
attempt  on  the  croAvn,  tlic  br;i  vo  nnswered,  "  My  father 
lost  a  good  estate  fighting  for  the  crown,  and  I  con- 


ROCIIKSTEK'S  EPIGRAM.  G3 

sidorcd  it  no  liaiiii  to  recover  it  liy  the  crown."  lie 
tlicii  toM  liis  Majesty  how  lie  luul  resolved  to  assa.ssi- 
nate  liini :  how  he  had  stood  among  the  reeds  in  Bat- 
tersea-fichls  with  this  design;  how  then,  a  su(hlen  awe 
lia<l  come  over  him  :  and  Charles  was  weak  enough  to 
admire  Blood's  Iraiicss  liraring  and  to  pai'doii  his 
attempt.  Well  might  the  Earl  of  Rochester  write  of 
Charles — 

"  Here  lies  my  sovereijo^  lord  the  king, 
^Vllo.se  word  no  man  relies  on; 
Who  never  said  a  foolish  thing, 
And  never  did  a  wise  one." 

Notwithstanding  Blood's  outrages — the  slightest  pen- 
alty for  whicli  ill  our  days  would  liave  heen  penal  ser- 
vitude for  life — Evelyn  met  him,  not  long  afterwards, 
at  Tjord  Clifford's,  at  dinner,  Avhen  De  Grammont  and 
other  French  nohlemen  were  entertained.  "  The  man," 
says  Evelyn,  "  had  not  only  a  daring,  but  a  villanous, 
unmerciful  look,  a  false  countenance ;  hut  very  well- 
spoken,  and   dangerously  insinuating." 

Early  in  1GG2,  the  Duke  of  Buckingham  liad  1)een 
eno-atred  in  practices  against  tlie  court:  he  had  ilis- 
guised  deep  designs  by  affecting  the  mere  man  of  pleas- 
ure. Never  Avas  there  such  splendor  as  at  Wallingford 
House — such  Avit  and  gallantry ;  such  perfect  good 
breeding ;  such  apparently  openhanded  hospitality. 
At  those  splendid  banquets,  John  Wilmot,  Earl  of 
Rochester,  "  a  man  whom  the  Muses  were  fond  to  in- 


G4      WALLING  FORD  HOUSE  AND  IIAM   HOUSE. 

spire,  but  asliamed  to  avow,"  showed  liis  "  beautiful 
face,"  as  it  was  called  ;  and  chimed  in  with  that  wit  for 
which  tiie  age  was  famous.  The  frequenters  at  Wall- 
ingford  House  gloried  in  their  indelicacy.  "  One  is 
amazed,"  Horace  Walpole  observes,  "at  hearing  the 
age  of  Charles  II.  called  polite.  The  Puritans  have 
affected  to  call  everything  by  a  Scripture'  name ;  the 
new  comers  affected  to  call  everything  by  its  right 
name ; 

'  As  if  preposterously  tliey  would  confess 
A  forced  hypocrisy  in  wickedness.'" 

Walpole  compares  the  age  of  Charles  II.  to  that  of 
Aristophanes — "  Avhich  called  its  own  grossness  polite." 
How  bitterly  he  decries  the  stale  poems  of  the  time  as 
"a  heap  of  senseless  ribaldry;"  how  truly  he  shows 
that  licentiousness  weakens  as  well  as  depraves  the 
judgment.  "  AYhen  Satyrs  are  brought  to  court,"  he 
observes,  "  no  wonder  the  Graces  would  not  trust  them- 
selves there." 

The  Cabal  is  said,  however,  to  have  been  concocted, 
not  at  Wallingford  House,  but  at  Ham  House,  near 
Kingston-on-Thames. 

In  this  stately  old  manor-house,  the  aljode  of  the 
Tollemache  family,  the  memory  of  Charles  II.  and  of 
his  court  seems  to  linger  still.  Ham  House  was  in- 
tended for  the  residence  of  Henry,  Prince  of  Wales, 
and  was  built  in  IGIO.  It  stands  near  the  river 
^riiames ;  and  is  flanked  by  noble  avenues  of  elm  and 
of  chestnut  trees,  down  which  one  may  almost,   as  it 


IIAM  HOUSE.  G5 

were,  hear  the  king's  talk  with  his  courtiers;  see 
Arlington  approach  with  the  well-known  patch  across 
his  nose  ;  or  spy  out  the  lovely,  childish  Miss  Stuart 
and  her  future  hushand,  the  Duke  of  llichraond,  slip- 
ping hehind  into  the  garden,  lest  the  jealous  mortified 
king  should  catch  a  sight  of  the  "conscious  lovers." 

This  stately  structure  was  given  by  Charles  II.,  in 
1672,  to  the  Duke  and  Duchess  of  Lauderdale :  she, 
the  supposed  mistress  of  Cromwell ;  he,  the  cruel,  hate- 
ful Lauderdale  of  the  Cabal.  This  detestable  couple, 
however,  fmiiislK'd  with  massive  grandeur  the  apart- 
ments of  Hani  House.  They  had  the  ceilings  painted 
by  Verrio ;  the  furniture  was  rich,  and  even  now  the 
bellows  and  brushes  in  some  of  the  rooms  are  of  silver 
fdigree.  One  room  is  furnished  with  yellow  damask, 
still  rich,  though  faded ;  the  very  seats  on  which 
Charles,  looking  around  him,  saw  Clifi'ord,  Arlington, 
Buckingham,  Ashley  (the  infamous  Shaftesbury),  and 
Lauderdale — and  knew  not,  good  easy  man,  that  he 
was  looking  on  a  band  of  traitors — are  still  there. 
Nay,  he  even  sat  to  Sir  Peter  Lely  for  a  portrait  for 
this  very  place — in  which,  schemes  for  the  ruin  of  the 
kingdom  were  concocted.  All,  probably,  was  smooth 
and  pleasing  to  the  monarcli  as  he  ranged  down  the 
fine  gallery,  ninety-two  feet  long;  or  sat  at  dinner 
amid  his  foes  in  thut  hall,  surrounded  with  an  open 
balustrade;  or  disported  himself  on  the  river's  green 
brink.     Nay,  one  may  even  fancy  Nell  Gwynn  taking 

a  day's  pleasure  in  tliis  then  lone  and  ever  sweet  local- 
VoL.  I.— 5 


66  "MADAME  ELLEN." 

ity.  We  hear  her  shearing,  as  she  Avas  wont  to  do, 
perchance  at  the  dim  looking-glasses,  her  own  house 
in  Pall  Mall,  given  her  by  the  king,  having  been  filled 
up,  for  the  comedian,  entirely,  ceiling  and  all,  with 
looking-glass.  How  bold  and  pretty  she  looked  in 
her  undress  !  Even  Pepys — no  very  sound  moralist, 
though  a  vast  hypocrite — tells  us :  Nelly,  "  all  un- 
ready "  was  "  very  pretty,  prettier  far  than  he  thought." 
But  to  see  how  she  was  "painted,"  would,  he  thought, 
"  make  a  man  mad." 

"Madame  Ellen,"  as  after  her  elevation,  as  it  was 
termed,  she  was  called,  might,  since  she  held  long 
a  great  sway  over  Charles's  fancy,  be  suffered  to 
scamper  about  Ham  House — where  her  merry  laugh 
perhaps  scandalized  the  now  saintly  Duchess  of  Lau- 
derdale,— just  to  impose  on  the  world ;  for  Nell  was 
regarded  as  the  Protestant  champion  of  the  court,  in 
opposition  to  her  French  rival,  the  Duchess  of  Ports- 
mouth. 

Let  us  suppose  that  she  has  been  at  Ham  House, 
and  is  gone  off  to  Pall  Mall  again,  where  she  can  see 
her  painted  foce  in  every  turn.  The  king  has  departed, 
and  Killigrew,  Avho,  at  all  events,  is  loyal,  and  the  true- 
hearted  Duke  of  Richmond,  all  are  away  to  London.  In 
yon  sanctimonious-looking  closet,  next  to  the  duchess's 
bed-chamber,  with  her  psalter  and  her  prayer-book  on 
her  desk,  which  is  fixed  to  her  great  chair,  and  tliat 
very  cane  which  still  hangs  there  serving  as  her  sup- 
port when  she  comes  forth   from  tlijit  closet,  uiuruiur 


THE  CABAL.  G7 

aii<l  wrangle  the  component  parts  of  tliat  which  was 
never  mentioned  without  fear — the  Cabal,  The  con- 
spirators dare  not  trust  themselves  in  the  gallery  :  there 
is  tapestry  there,  and  we  all  know  what  coverts  there 
are  for  eavesdroppers  and  spiders  in  tapestried  walls : 
then  the  great  Cardinal  s])iders  do  so  click  there,  are 
so  like  the  death-watch,  that  Villiers,  who  is  inveterately 
superstitious,  will  nut  ahide  there.  The  hall,  with  its 
enclosing  galleries,  and  the  buttery  near,  are  manifestly 
unsafe.  So  they  herd,  nay,  crouch,  mutter,  and  concoct 
that  fearful  treachery  which,  as  far  as  their  country  is 
concerned,  has  l)een  a  thing  apart  in  our  annals,  in 
"my  Lady's"  closet.  Englishmen  are  turbulent,  am- 
bitious, unscrupulous;  but  the  craft  of  Maitland,  Duke 
of  Lauderdale — the  subtlety  of  Ashley,  seem  hardly 
conceivable  either  in  a  Scot  or  Southron. 

These  meetings  had  their  natural  consequence.  One 
leaves  Lauderdale,  Arlington,  Ashley,  and  Clifford,  to 
their  fate,  l^ut  tlie  career  of  Villiers  inspires  more 
interest.  lie  seemed  born  for  better  thinjis.  Like 
many  men  of  genius,  he  was  so  credulous  that  the  faith 
lie  pinned  (in  one  Heydon,  an  astrologer,  at  this  time, 
perhaps  buoyed  him  up  with  false  hopes.  Be  it  as  it 
may,  his  ])lots  now  tended  to  open  insurrection.  In 
16G6,  a  proclamation  had  been  issued  for  his  appre- 
hension— he  having  then  absconded.  On  tliis  occasion 
he  was  saveil  by  tlie  act  of  one  whom  he  had  injured 
grossly — liis  wife.  She  managed  to  outride  the  ser- 
jeant-at-arms, and   to  warn   him  of  his  dan^-er.      She 


G8  VILLIEES  AGAIN   IN  THE  TOWEE. 

had  borne  his  infidelities,  after  the  fashion  of  the  day, 
as  a  matter  of  course:  jealousy  was  then  an  imperti- 
nence— constancy,  a  chimera ;  and  her  husband,  what- 
ever his  conduct,  had  ever  treated  her  with  kindness 
of  manner ;  he  had  that  charm,  that  attribute  of 
his  flimily,  in  perfection,  and  it  had  fascinated  Mary 
Fairfax. 

He  fled,  and  played  for  a  year  successfully  the 
pranks  of  his  youth.  At  last,  worn  out,  he  talked 
of  giving  himself  up  to  justice.  "Mr.  Fenn,  at  the 
table,  says  that  he  hath  been  taken  by  the  watch  two 
or  three  times  of  late,  at  unseasonable  hours,  but  so 
disguised  they  did  not  knoAV  him  ;  and  when  I  come 
home,  by  and  by,  Mr.  Lowther  tells  me  that  the  Duke 
of  Buckingham  do  dine  publickly  this  day  at  Wadlow's, 
at  the  Sun  Tavern  ;  and  is  mighty  merry,  and  sent  word 
to  the  Lieutenant  of  the  Tower,  that  he  would  come  to 
liim  as  soon  as  he  dined."     So  Pepys  states. 

Whilst  in  the  Tower — to  which  he  w^as  again  com- 
mitted— Buckingham's  pardon  was  solicited  by  Lady 
Castlemaine ;  on  which  account  the  king  was  very 
angry  with  her;  called  her  a  meddling  "jade;"  she 
calling  him  "f^ol,"  and  saying  if  he  was  not  a  fool  he 
never  would  suffer  his  best  subjects  to  be  imprisoned — 
referring  to  Buckingham.  And  not  only  did  she  ask 
his  liberty,  but  tlie  restitution  of  his  places.  No  wonder 
there  was  discontent  wlien  such  things  were  done,  and 
))ublic  affairs  were  in  such  a  state.  We  must  again 
quote   the   graphic,    terse    language   of   rej)ys  : — "  It 


A  CHANGE.  fjO 

was  computed  that  the  rarliaincut  luul  given  the 
kill"  for  this  \\;\v  only,  besides  all  prizes,  and  besides 
the  £200,000  which  he  was  to  spend  of  his  own 
revenue,  to  <^uard  the  sea,  above  £5,000,000,  and 
odd  £100,000;  which  is  a  most  prodigious  sum.  Sir 
II.  Cholmly,  as  a  true  English  gentleman,  do  decry  the 
king's  expenses  of  his  privy  purse,  which  in  King 
James's  time  did  not  rise  to  above  £5000  a  year, 
and  in  King  Charles's  to  £10,000,  do  now  cost  us 
above  £100,000,  besides  the  great  charge  of  the 
monarchy,  as  the  Duke  of  York  has  £100,000  of 
it,  and  other  limbs  of  the  royal  family." 

In  consequence  of  Lady  Castlemaine's  intervention, 
Villiers  was  restored  to  liberty — a  strange  instance,  as 
Pepys  remarks,  of  the  "  fool's  play  "  of  the  age.  Buck- 
ingham was  now  as  presuming  as  ever :  he  had  a  theatre 
of  his  own,  and  he  soon  showed  his  usual  arrogance  by 
beating  Henry  Killigrew  on  the  stage,  and  taking  aAvay 
his  coat  and  sword;  all  very  "innocently"  done,  ac- 
cording to  Pepys.  In  July  he  appeared  in  his  place 
in  the  House  of  Lords,  as  "brisk  as  ever,"  and  sat  in 
his  robes,  "  which,"  says  Pepys,  "  is  a  monstrous  thing 
that  a  man  should  be  proclaimed  against,  and  put  in 
the  Tower,  and  released  without  any  trial,  and  yet  not 
restored  to  his  places." 

We  next  find  the  duke  intrusted  with  a  mission  to 
France,  in  concert  with  Halifax  and  Arlington.  In 
the  year  1080.  he  Avas  threatened  with  an  impeachment, 
in  which,  with  his  usual  skill,  he  managed  to  exculpate 


70  NEARING  THE  END. 

liimself  by  blaming  Lord  Arlington.  The  House  of 
Commons  passed  a  vote  for  his  removal ;  and  he  entered 
the  ranks  of  the  opposition. 

But  this  career  of  public  meanness  and  private  prof- 
ligacy was  drawing  to  a  close.  Alcibiades  no  longer — 
his  frame  wasted  by  vice — his  spirits  broken  by  pecu- 
niary difficulties — Buckingham's  importance  visibly 
sank  away.  "He  remained,  at  last,"  to  borroAV  the 
words  of  Hume,  "  as  incapable  of  doing  hurt  as  he  had 
ever  been  little  desirous  of  doing  good  to  mankind." 
His  fortune  had  now  dwindled  down  to  X300  a  year 
in  land ;  he  sold  Wallingford  House,  and  removed 
into  the  City. 

And  now  the  fruits  of  his  adversity,  not,  we  hope, 
too  late,  began  to  appear.  Like  Lord  Rochester,  who 
had  ordered  all  his  immoral  works  to  be  burnt,  Buck- 
ingham now  wished  to  retrieve  the  past.  In  1685  he 
Avrote  tlie  religious  works  which  form  so  striking  a  con- 
trast with  his  other  productions. 

That  he  had  been  up  to  the  very  time  of  his  ruin 
perfectly  impervious  to  remorse,  dead  also  to  sliame,  is 
amply  manifested  by  his  conduct  soon  after  his  duel 
with  the  Earl  of  Shrewsbury. 

Sir  George  Etherege  had  brought  out  a  new  play  at 
the  Duke  of  York's  Theatre.  It  was  called,  "  She 
Would  if  she  Could."  Plays  in  tliosc  days  began  at 
what  we  now  consider  our  luncheon  hour.  Thougli 
Pcpys  arrived  at  the  theatre  on  tliis  occasion  at  two 
o'clock — liis  wife  having  gone  before — about  a  thou- 


TIIK   DL'Kl-:  OF  YORK'S  THEATKE.  71 

sand  people  had  then  been  put  ])ack  from  the  pit.  At 
last,  seeing  his  wife  in  the  eightecn-ponny  box,  Samuel 
"  made  shift  "  to  get  there  and  there  saw,  "  but  lord  !" 
(his  own  words  are  inimitable)  "  how  dull,  and  how  silly 
the  play,  there  being  nothing  in  the  Avorld  good  in  it, 
and  few  people  pleased  in  it.  The  king  was  there ;  but 
I  sat  mightily  behind,  and  could  sec  but  little,  and  hear 
not  at  all.  The  play  being  done,  I  went  into  the  pit 
to  look  for  my  wife,  it  being  (hirk  and  raining,  but 
could  not  find  her ;  ami  so  staid,  going  between  the  two 
doors  and  through  the  pit  an  hour  ami  a  half,  I  think, 
after  the  i)lay  was  done ;  the  people  staying  there  till 
the  rain  was  over,  and  to  talk  to  one  another.  And 
among  the  rest,  here  wa^  the  Duke  of  Buckingham 
to-day  openly  in  the  pit ;  and  there  I  found  him  with 
my  Lord  Buckhurst,  and  Sedley,  and  Etheridge  the 
poet,  the  last  of  whom  I  did  hear  mightily  find  fault 
with  the  actors,  that  they  were  out  of  humor,  and  had 
not  their  parts  perfect,  and  tliat  Harris  did  do  nothing, 
nor  could  so  much  as  sing  a  ketch  in  it ;  and  so  was 
mightily  concerned,  while  all  the  rest  did,  through  the 
whole  pit,  blame  the  play  as  a  silly,  dull  thing,  though 
there  was  something  very  roguish  and  witty ;  but  the 
design  of  the  play,  and  end,  mighty  insipid." 

Buckingham  had  held  out  to  his  Puritan  friends 
the  lio])e  of  his  conversion  for  some  years ;  and  when 
they  attempted  to  convert  him,  he  had  appointed  a 
time  for  them  to  finish  their  work.  They  kept  their 
promise,  and   discovered  him  in   the   most   i)rofligate 


72     THE  DUCHESS  OF  BUCKINGHAM  LEAVES. 

society.  It  was  indeed  impossible  to  know  in  wliat 
directions  his  fancies  might  take  him,  when  Ave  find 
him  believing  in  the  predictions  of  a  poor  fellow  in 
a  Avretched  lodging  near  Tower  Hill,  who,  having 
cast  his  nativity,  assured  the  duke  he  would  be  king. 

He  had  continued  for  years  to  live  with  the  Countess 
of  Shrewsbury,  and  two  months  after  her  husband's 
death,  had  taken  her  to  his  home.  Then,  at  last,  the 
Duchess  of  Buckingham  indignantly  observed,  that 
she  and  the  countess  could  not  possibly  live  together. 
"  So  I  thought,  madam,"  was  the  reply.  "■  I  have 
therefore  ordered  your  coach  to  take  you  to  your 
fother's."  It  has  been  asserted  that  Dr.  Sprat,  the 
duke's  chaplain,  actually  married  him  to  Lady  Shrews- 
bury, and  that  his  legal  wife  was  thenceforth  styled 
"  The  Duchess-dowager." 

He  retreated  with  his  mistress  to  Claverdon,  near 
Windsor,  situated  on  the  summit  of  a  hill  which  is 
washed  by  the  Thames.  It  is  a  noble  building,  with 
a  great  terrace  in  front,  under  which  are  twenty-six 
niches,  in  which  Buckingham  had  intended  to  place 
twenty-six  statues  as  large  as  life ;  and  in  the  middle 
is  an  alcove  with  stairs.  Here  he  lived  with  the  in- 
famous countess,  by  whom  he  had  a  son,  whom  he 
styled  Earl  of  Coventry  (his  second  title),  and  who 
died  an  infant. 

One  lingers  still  over  the  social  career  of  one  whom 
Louis  XIV.  called  "  the  only  English  gentleman  he 
had  ever  seen."     A  capital  retort  was  made  to  Buck- 


VILLIEKS   AND  TIIK    rniXCESS  OF  OIlAXflE.    73 

ingliani  l»y  tlic  Princess  of  Orange,  during  an  inter- 
view, when  he  stopped  at  the  Hague,  between  hir  and 
tlie  Duke.  lie  was  trying  diph)niatically  to  convince 
her  of"  tlic  afl'ection  of  Enghind  for  the  States.  "We 
do  not,"  lie  said,  "•  use  IIoHand  like  a  mistress,  we  love 
her  as  a  Avife."  '■'' Vraimcnt  je  crois  que  vous  nous 
aimez  comme  vous  aimez  la  voire,''  was  the  sharp  and 
clever  answer. 

On  the  death  of  Charles  II.,  in  KJS.'),  Buckingham 
retired  to  the  small  remnant  of  his  Yorkshire  estates. 
Ilis  debts  Avere  now  set  down  at  the  sum  of  £140,000. 
They  were  li(|uidated  by  the  sale  of  his  estates.  He 
took  kindly  to  a  countr}'  life,  to  the  surprise  of  his  old 
comrade  in  pleasure,  Etherege.  "  I  have  heard  the 
news,"  that  wit  cried,  alluding  to  this  change,  "with 
no  less  astonishment  than  if  I  had  been  told  that  the 
Pope  had  begun  to  wear  a  periAvig  and  had  turned  beau 
in  the  seventy-fourth  year  of  his  age  !" 

Father  Petre  and  Father  Fitzgerald  were  sent  by 
James  II.  to  convert  the  duke  to  Popery.  The  follow- 
ing anecdote  is  told  of  their  conference  with  the  dying 
sinner  : — "  We  deny,"  said  the  Jesuit  Petre,  "  that  any 
one  can  be  saved  out  of  our  Church.  Your  grace 
allows  that  our  people  may  be  saved." — "No,"  said 
the  duke,  "  I  make  no  doubt  you  will  all  be  damned  to 
a  man!"  — "  Sir,"  said  tlu^  father,  "I  cannot  argue 
with  a  person  so  void  of  all  charity." — "  I  did  not  ex- 
pect, my  reverend  father,"  said  the  duke,  "such  a 
reproach  from  you,  Avhose  whole  reasoning  was  founded 


74  VILLIERS'S  LAST  HOURS. 

on  the  very  same  instance  of  want  of  charity  to  your- 
self." 

Buckingham's  death  took  place  at  Helmsby,  in  York- 
shire, and  the  immediate  cause  was  an  ague  and  fever, 
owing  to  having  sat  down  on  the  wet  grass  after  fox- 
hunting. Pope  has  given  the  following  forcible,  but 
inaccurate  account  of  his  last  hours,  and  the  place  in 
which  they  were  passed  : — 

"  In  the  worst  inn's  worst  I'oom,  witli  mat  half  hung, 
The  floors  of  ])laster  and  the  walls  of  dung, 
On  once  a  flock-bed,  but  repaired  with  straw, 
With  tape-tied  curtains  never  meant  to  draw ; 
The  George  and  Garter  dangling  from  that  bed, 
Where  tawdry  yellow  strove  with  dirty  red, 
Great  Villiers  lies: — alas!  how  changed  from  him, 
That  life  of  pleasure  and  that  soul  of  whim ! 
Gallant  and  gay,  in  Claverdon's  proud  alcove, 
The  liower  of  wanton  Shrewsbury  and  love ; 
Or,  just  as  gay,  at  council  in  a  ring 
Of  mimic'd  statesmen  and  their  merry  King. 
No  wit  to  flatter  left  of  all  his  store. 
No  fool  to  laugh  at,  which  he  valued  more, 
Then  victor  of  his  health,  of  fortune,  friends, 
And  fame,  this  lord  of  useless  thousands  ends." 

Far  from  expiring  in  the  "worst  inn's  worst  room," 
the  duke  breathed  his  last  in  Kirby  Moorside,  in  a 
house  which  had  once  been  the  best  in  the  place. 
Brian  Fairfax,  who  loved  this  brilliant  reprobate,  has 
left  the  only  authentic  account  on  record  of  his  last 
hours. 

The  niglit  2>revious  to  tire  duke's  death  Fairfax  had 


DEATH   OK   VILLIKKS.  75 

received  a  niessajrc  from  liiiii  <lesirin;^f  liiiii  to  prepare  a 
bed  for  him  in  liis  house,  Bishop  Hill,  in  York.  The 
next  day,  liowever,  Fairfax  was  sent  for  to  liis  master, 
whom  he  iuiiiid  <lyin_<T.  lie  was  speechless,  but  gave 
the  afiiicted  servant  an  earnest  look  of  recognition. 

The  Earl  of  A  nan,  son  of  the  Duke  of  Hamilton, 
and  a  gentleman  of  the  neighborhood,  stood  by  his 
bedside.  He  had  then  received  the  Holy  Commu- 
nion from  a  neighl)oring  clergyman  of  the  Established 
Church.  When  tlic  minister  came  it  is  said  that  he 
inquired  of  the  duke  wliat  religion  he  professed.  "  It 
is,"  replied  tlie  dying  man,  "  an  insignificant  question, 
for  I  have  been  a  shame  and  a  disgrace  to  all  reliijrions: 
if  you  can  do  me  any  good,  i»ray  do."  When  a  popish 
priest  bad  been  mentioned  to  bim,  be  answered  vehe- 
mently, "  No,  no !" 

He  was  in  a  very  low  state  when  Lord  Arran  had 
found  him.  But  tliougb  that  nobleman  saw  dcalli  in 
his  looks,  tlio  duke  said  he  "'felt  so  well  al  heart  that 
he  kiK'w  he  could  be  in  no  danger." 

He  appeared  to  have  bad  inilammation  in  the  bowels, 
■wliich  ended  in  mortification.  He  betiged  of  Lord 
Arran  to  stay  with  him.  The  bouse  seems  to  have 
been  in  a  most  miserable  condition,  for  in  a  letter  from 
Lord  Arran  to  Dr.  Sprat,  he  says,  "I  confess  it  made 
my  heart  l)leed  to  see  the  Duke  of  Buckingham  in  so 
})itiful  a  })lace,  aiul  so  bad  a  condition,  and  what  made 
it  worse,  be  was  not  at  all  sensible  of  it,  for  he  thought 
in  a  day  or  two  he  ohould  be  well ,  and  when  we  re- 


76  DEATH  OF  VILLIERS. 

minded  him  of  his  condition,  ho  said  it  was  not  as  we 
apprehended.  So  I  sent  for  a  worthy  gentleman,  ]\Ir. 
Gibson,  to  be  assistant  to  me  in  this  work  ;  so  we  joint- 
ly represented  his  condition  to  him,  who  I  saw  was  at 
first  very  uneasy ;  but  I  think  we  should  not  have  dis- 
charged the  duties  of  honest  men  if  we  had  suffered 
him  to  go  out  of  this  world  without  desiring  him  to  pre- 
pare for  death."  The  duke  joined  heartily  in  the  beau- 
tiful prayers  for  the  dying,  of  our  Church,  and  yet 
there  was  a  sort  of  selfishness  and  indiff'erence  to  others 
manifest  even  at  the  last. 

"Mr.  Gibson,"  writes  Lord  Arran,  "asked  him  if 
he  had  made  a  will,  or  if  he  would  declare  who  was  to 
be  his  heir  ?  but  to  the  first,  he  answered  he  had  made 
none  ;  and  to  the  last,  whoever  was  named  he  answered, 
'No.'  First,  my  lady  duchess  was  named,  and  then  I 
think  almost  everybody  that  had  any  relation  to  him, 
but  his  answer  always  was,  'No.'  I  did  fully  repre- 
sent my  lady  duchess'  condition  to  him,  but  nothing  that 
Avas  said  to  him  could  make  him  come  to  any  point." 

In  this  "retired  corner,"  as  Lord  Arran  terms  it, 
did  the  former  Avit  and  beau,  the  once  brave  and  fine 
cavalier,  the  reckless  plotter  in  after-life,  end  his  exist- 
ence. His  body  was  removed  to  Helmsby  Castle,  there 
to  wait  the  duchess'  pleasure,  being  meantime  embalmed. 
Not  one  fartliing  could  his  steward  produce  to  defray 
his  burial.  His  George  and  blue  ribbon  were  sent  to 
tiie  King  James,  with  an  account  of  his  death. 

In  Kirby  Moorside  the  following  entry  in  the  regis- 


DUCHESS  OF  BUCKINGHAM.  77 

tcr  of  burials  records  the  event,  which  is  so  replete  with 
a  singular  retributive  justice — so  constituted  to  impress 
and  sadden  the  mind  : — 

"Georges  \'ilhis  Lord  tlooke  of  Buckingham." 

lie  left  scarcely  a  friend  to  mourn  liis  life  ;  for  to  no 
mnn  had  lie  licen  true,  lie  died  on  liic  lOth  of  A])ril 
aecordiii"^  to  some  accounts  ;  according-  to  others,  on  the 
third  of  that  month,  1687,  in  the  sixty-first  year  of  his 
age.  His  body,  after  being  embalmed,  was  deposited 
in  the  family  vault  in  Henry  VII. 's  chapel.^  He  left 
no  ehildren,  and  his  title  was  therefore  extinct.  The 
Duchess  of  Buckingham,  of  Avhom  Brian  Fairfax  re- 
marks. "  tliat  if  she  had  none  of  the  vanities,  she  had 
none  of  the  vices  of  the  court,"  survived  him  several 
years.  She  died  in  1705,  at  the  age  of  sixty-six,  and 
was  buried  in  the  vault  of  the  Yilliers'  family,  in  the 
chapel  of  llenry  VII. 

Such  was  the  extinction  of  all  the  magnificence  and 
intellectual  ascendency  that  at  one  time  centred  in  the 
great  and  gifted  family  of  Villiers. 

'  llrian  Fairfax  states,  that  at  his  drath  (the  Duke  of  Bueking- 
Iiani'.s)  lif  (liaiiicd  Ills  dehts  on  ids  estate,  leaving  nuidi  more  tlian 
cnougli  to  cover  tiieui.  By  tiie  register  of  Westminster  Al)l)ey  it 
ajipears  that  he  was  buried  in  Henry  VH.'s  Cliapel,  7tli  June,  1087. 


COUNT  DE  GRAMMONT,  ST.  EVREMOND, 
AND  LORD  ROCHESTER. 

It  lias  been  observed  by  a  Freneli  critic  that  the 
Memoires  tie  Grammont  afford  the  truest  specimens 
of  French  character  in  our  hmguage.  To  this  it  may 
be  added,  that  the  subject  of  that  animated  narrative 
was  most  completely  French  in  principle,  in  intelli- 
gence, in  wit  that  hesitated  at  nothing,  in  spirits  that 
were  never  daunted,  and  in  that  incessant  activity 
which  is  characteristic  of  his  countrymen.  Grammont, 
it  was  said,  "  slept  neither  night  nor  day  ;"  his  life  was 
one  scene  of  incessant  excitement. 

His  father,  supposed  to  have  been  the  natural  son 
of  Henry  the  Great,  of  France,  did  not  suppress  that 
fact,  but  desired  to  publish  it :  for  the  morals  of  his 
time  were  so  depraved,  that  it  was  thought  to  be  more 
honorable  to  be  the  illegitimate  son  of  a  king  than  the 
lawful  child  of  lowlier  parents.  Born  in  the  Castle 
of  Semeae,  on  the  banks  of  the  Garonne,  the  fame 
of  two  fair  ancestresses,  Corisande  and  Menadame, 
had  entitled  the  family  of  De  Grammont  to  ex})ect  in 
each  successive  member  an  inheritance  of  beauty. 
Wit,  courage,  good  nature,  a  charming  address,  and 
boundless   assurance,   were   the   heritage   of    Philibert 


iai)ililunt,  itomxt  tie  O^vammout. 


jMHTWrnmiynwHiiiimnii  i  iimimiiiiinniini 


-'c".  4larechaL^  UrYxmiiit 


'  ur  dr  J^rcuic-i: 


THE  CIU'KCir  OK  TlIK   AKMY.  79 

dc  (jniiuiuoiit.  lieauty  w;is  not  iu  his  possession; 
good  nature,  a  more  popular  (quality,  ho  had  in  abun- 
dance : 

"Ilis  wit  to  scandal  never  stooping, 
His  mirth  ne'er  to  buflbonery  drooping." 

As  Pliilihert  grew  up,  the  two  aristocratic  professions 
of  France  were  presented  for  his  choice :  the  army,  or 
the  church.  Neitlier  (^f  tliese  vocations  constitutes  now 
the  ambition  of  the  high-born  in  France :  the  church, 
to  a  certain  extent,  retains  its  2^r<isUge,  but  the  army, 
ever  since  officers  have  risen  from  the  ranks,  does  not 
comprise  tlie  same  chiss  of  men  as  in  Enghmd.  In 
the  reign  of  Louis  XIII.,  when  De  Grammont  lived,  it 
Avas  othei'wise.  All  political  power  was  vested  in  the 
church.  Richelieu  was,  to  all  purposes,  the  ruler  of 
France,  the  dictator  of  Europe;  and,  with  regard  to 
the  church,  great  men,  at  the  head  of  military  affairs, 
were  daily  proving  to  the  world,  how  much  intelligence 
could  eftect  with  a  small  numerical  power.  Young 
men  took  one  course  or  another :  the  sway  of  tlie 
cabinet,  on  the  one  hand,  tempted  tlieni  to  the  church  ; 
the  brilliant  exploits  of  Turenne,  and  of  Conde,  on 
the  other,  led  them  to  the  camp.  It  was  merely  the 
difference  of  dress  between  the  tAvo  that  constituted 
the  distinction  :  the  soldier  might  be  as  pious  as  the 
priest,  tlie  priest  was  sure  to  be  as  woi-ldly  as  the  sol- 
dier ;  the  soldier  might  have  ecclesiastical  ])refernu'nt ; 
the  jii'icst  sometimes  turne<l  out  to  fight. 


80  DE  GRAMMONT'S  CHOICE. 

Pliilibert  de  Grammont  chose  to  be  a  soldier.  lie 
was  styled  the  Chevalier  de  Grammont,  according  to 
custom,  his  father  being  still  living.  He  fought  under 
Turenne,  at  the  siege  of  Trino.  The  army  in  which 
he  served  was  beleaguering  that  city  Avhon  the  gay 
youth  from  the  banks  of  the  Garonne  joined  it,  to  aid 
it  not  so  much  by  his  valor  as  by  the  fun,  the  raillery, 
the  off-hand  anecdote,  the  ready,  hearty  companionship 
which  lightened  the  soldier's  life  in  the  trenches :  adieu 
to  impatience,  to  despair,  even  to  gravity.  The  very 
generals  could  not  maintain  their  seriousness  when  the 
light-hearted  De  Grammont  uttered  a  repartee — 

"Sworn  enemy  to  all  long  speeches, 
Lively  and  biilliant,  frank  and  free, 
Author  of  many  a  reiiartee : 
Remember,  over  all,  that  he 
Was  not  renowned  for  storming  breaches." 

Where  he  came,  all  was  sunshine,  yet  there  breathed 
not  a  colder,  graver  man  than  the  Calvinist  Turenne : 
modest,  serious,  somewhat  hard,  he  gave  the  young  no- 
bility who  served  under  him  no  quarter  in  their  short- 
comings ;  but  a  word,  a  look,  from  De  Grammont 
could  make  him,  malijre  Iut\  unbend.  The  gay  chev- 
alier's Avhite  charger's  prancing,  its  gallant  rider  fore- 
most in  every  peril,  were  not  forgotten  in  after-times, 
when  Do  Grammont,  in  extreme  old  age,  chatted  over 
the  acliievements  ;ind  ])leasures  of  his  youth. 

Amongst  those  Avho  courted  his  society  in  Turenne's 
army  Avas  Matta,   a  soldier  of  simj)le  manners,   hard 


Ills    INTIAJENCK    WITH    TUKENNE.  SI 

li:il)its,  Mild  liMiidsoinc  person,  jointMl  to  a  candid,  lion- 
cst  nature.  lie  soon  pcrsiiadeil  De  Granimont  to  sliare 
liis  ((iiartcrs,  and  there  they  gave  splendhl  entertain- 
ments, whieli,  Krciiclinian-like,  De  Graniniont  jiaid  l"i>r 
out  of"  tlie  successes  of  tlie  ''aminij-tal)les.  IJut  chances 
AV('i-('  airainst  them  ;  the  two  officers  were  at  tlie  mercy 
ol"  their  iiKiitrc  d'/iofr/,  wlio  asked  for  money.  One 
day,  when  De  (irammont  came  liome  sooner  than 
usual,  he  found  Matta  fast  asleep.  Whilst  De  Gram- 
inont  stood  looking  at  him,  he  awoke,  and  burst  into  a 
violent  fit  of  laughter. 

"  What  is  the  matter?"  cried  tlie  chevalier. 

"  Faith,  chevalier,"  answered  Matta,  "•  I  was  dream- 
ing that  we  had  sent  away  our  viaitre  d' hotel,  and  Avere 
resolveil  to  live  like  our  neighbors  for  the  rest  of  the 
camj)aign." 

"  Poor  fellow  !"  cried  De  Grammont.  "  So  you  are 
knocked  down  at  once:  what  would  have  become  of 
you  if  you  had  been  reduced  to  the  situation  I  was  in 
at  Lyons,  four  days  before  I  came  here  ?  Come,  I  will 
tell  you  all  about  it." 

"Begin  a  little  fiirther  back,"  cried  Matta,  "and 
tell  me  about  tlie  inaiiiier  in  which  you  first  paid  your 
respects  to  Cardinal  Richelieu.  Lay  aside  your  pranks 
as  a  child,  your  genealogy,  and  all  your  ancestors 
together;  you  cannot  know  anything  about  them." 

"Well,"  replied  De  Grammont,  "it  was  my  father's 

own  fault  that  he  was  not  Henry  IV. 's  son:  see  what 

the  Graramonts  have  lost  by  this  cross-grained  fellow  I 
Vol.  I.— 6 


82       THE  CHURCH  OR  THE  ARMY. 

Faith,  we  misrlit  have  Avalked   JK'fore  the  Counts  de 
Vendonie  at  this  very  moment." 

Then  lie  went  on  to  rehite  liow  he  had  been  sent  to 
Pau,  to  the  college,  to  he  ])roiight  up  to  the  church, 
with  an  old  servant  to  act  both  as  his  valet  and  his 
guardian.  How  his  head  was  too  full  of  gaming  to 
learn  Latin.  How  they  gave  him  his  rank  at  college, 
as  the  youth  of  quality,  when  he  did  not  deserve  it ; 
how  he  travelled  up  to  Paris  to  his  brother  to  be  pol- 
ished, and  went  to  court  in  the  character  of  an  abbe. 
"  Ah,  Matta,  you  know  the  kind  of  dress  then  in 
vogue.  No,  I  would  not  change  my  dress,  but  I  con- 
sented to  draw  over  it  a  cassock.  I  had  the  finest 
head  of  hair  in  the  world,  well  curled  and  powdered 
above  my  cassock,  and  below  were  my  white  buskins 
and  spurs." 

Even  Richelieu,  that  hypocrite,  he  went  on  to  relate, 
could  not  help  laughing  at  the  parti-colored  costume, 
sacerdotal  above,  soldier-like  below  ;  but  the  cardinal 
was  greatly  oflFended — not  with  the  absence  of  decorum, 
but  with  the  dangerous  wit,  that  could  laugh  in  public 
at  the  cowl  and  shaven  crown,  points  which  constituted 
the  greatest  portion  of  Richelieu's  sanctity. 

De  Grammont's  brother,  however,  thus  addressed 
the  Chevalier: — "Well,  my  little  parson,"  said  he,  as 
they  went  home,  "you  have  acted  your  part  to  perfec- 
tion ;  l)ut  now  you  must  choose  your  career.  If  you 
like  to  stick  to  the  church,  you  will  possess  great 
revenues,  and  nothing  to  do;  if  you  choose  to  go  into 


f) 


AN    ADVENTIIIIK   AT    lAONS.  83 

(lie  :inn_v,  ymi  will  risk  y<»Hr  ;n-iii  or  your  Ici:,  lnit  in 
time  vuii  iiiMv  Ix'  :i  iii:ijor-gcner:il  with  n  avikkIcii  log 
iiiid  M  i:;lass  eye,  tlic  spectacle  of  nu  indiflV'rciit,  uii- 
irrntofiil  court.      Make   voiir  clioicc." 

TliG  choice,  I'hilihert  went  on  to  ivlate,  -was  made. 
l'^)r  the  _!^oo;l  of  his  soul,  he  rciioiinccit  the  cliurch,  hut 
tor  his  own  advantarrc,  he  kept  his  abhacv.  This  was 
not  dillicult  in  days  wlicn  secular  al)l)es  Avere  common  ; 
nothing  would  induce  him  to  change  his  resolution  of 
being  a  soldier.  Meantime  he  was  perfecting  his  ac- 
complishments as  a  fine  gentleman,  one  of  the  requi- 
sites for  which  was  a  knowledge  of  all  sorts  of  games. 
No  matter  tliat  liis  mother  was  miserable  at  his  decis- 
ion. Had  licr  son  been  an  al)be,  she  thought  he  would 
have  become  a  saint :  nevertheless,  wlicn  he  returned 
liome,  with  the  air  of  a  courtier  and  a  man  of  the 
world,  l)oy  as  he  was,  and  tlie  very  impersonation  of 
what  might  then  be  termed  la  jeune  France.,  she  Avas  so 
enchanted  Avith  him  that  she  consented  to  his  goina;  to 
the  Avars,  attended  again  by  Brinon,  his  valet,  equerry, 
and  Mentor  in  one.  Next  in  Do  Grammont's  narra- 
tive came  his  adventure  at  Lyons,  Avhere  he  spent  the 
200  louis  his  mother  had  given  Brinon  for  him,  in 
play,  and  very  nearly  broke  the  poor  old  servant's 
hcai't ;  Avlicre  ho  liad  du[)ed  a  horse-dealer;  and  he 
ended  by  jiroposing  plans,  similarly  honorable,  to  be 
adopted  fcM"  their  present  emergencies. 

The  first  step  Avas  to  go  to  head-quarters,  to  dine  Avith 
a  certain  Count  de  Cameran,  a  Savoyard,  and  invite 


84  A  BRILLIANT  IDEA. 

liim  to  supper.  Here  Matta  interposed.  "Arc  you 
mad?"  he  exclaimed.  "Invito  liim  to  supper!  we 
liave  neither  money  nor  credit;  we  are  ruined;  and 
to  save  us  you  intend  to  give  a  supper!" 

"  Stupid  feUow  !"  cried  De  Granniiont.  "  Cameran 
plays  at  quinze :  so  do  I :  we  want  money.  lie  has 
more  than  ho  knows  what  to  do  with;  we  give  a  sup- 
per, he  pays  for  it.  However,"  he  added,  "  it  is  neces- 
sary to  take  certain  precautions.  You  command  the 
Guards:  when  night  comes  on,  order  your  Sergent- 
de-plaee  to  have  fifteen  or  twenty  men  under  arms,  and 
let  them  lay  themselves  flat  on  the  ground  between  this 
and  head-quarters.  Most  likely  we  shall  win  this  stupid 
fellow's  money.  Now  the  Piedmontese  are  suspicious, 
and  he  commands  the  Horse.  Now,  you  know,  Matta, 
you  cannot  hold  your  tongue,  and  are  very  likely  to  let 
out  some  joke  that  will  vex  him.  Supposing  he  takes 
it  into  his  head  that  he  is  being  cheated  ?  He  has 
always  eight  or  ten  horsemen  :  we  must  be  prepared." 

"Embrace  me!"  cried  Matta,  "embrace  me!  for 
thou  art  unparalleled.  I  thought  you  only  meant  to 
prepare  a  pack  of  cards  and  some  false  dice.  But 
the  idea  of  protecting  a  man  who  plays  at  quinze  by 
a  detachment  of  foot  is  excellent :  thine  own,  dear 
Chevalier." 

Thus,  like  some  of  Dumas'  heroes,  hating  villany  as 
a  matter  of  course,  but  being  by  no  means  ashamed  to 
acknowledge  it,  the  Piedmontese  was  asked  to  supper. 
He  came.     Nevertheless,   in  the  midst  of  the  affair, 


GA.MIM.l.Nc;    LTUN    (KKldT.  85 

Avlicn  De  C;iinci:in  was  losinfi;  as  fast  as  lie  coiiM, 
Matta's  conscience  touched  him  :  he  awoke  froiii  a 
deep  sleep,  heanl  the  dice  shaking,  saw  the  i)i)or 
Savoyard  losing,  and  adviseil   hiiu    to  play  no  more. 

'•  Don't  voii  know,  (Jount,  you  cannot  Avin?" 

"  Why  ?"  asked  the  Count. 

"  Why,  faith,  because  we  are  cheating  you,"  was  the 
reply. 

The  Chevalier  turned  round  impatiently,  "  Sicur 
Matta,"  he  ciied,  "do  3'ou  suppose  it  can  be  any 
amusement  to  Monsieur  le  Corate  to  be  plagued  with 
your  ill-timed  jests?  For  my  part,  I  am  so  weary  of 
the  gauK',  tliat  r  swear  by  Jupiter  I  can  scarcely  jilay 
any  more."  Nothing  is  more  distasteful  to  a  losing 
gamester  than  a  hint  of  leaving  off;  so  the  Count 
entreated  the  Chevalier  to  continue,  and  assured  him 
that  "  Monsieur  Matta  might  say  what  he  pleased,  for 
it  did  not  give  him  the  least  uneasiness  to  continue." 

The  Chevalier  allowed  the  Count  to  play  upon  credit, 
and  that  act  of  courtesy  was  taken  very  kindly  :  the 
dupe  lost  1500  pistoles,  which  he  paid  the  next  morn- 
ing, when  Matta  was  sharply  reprimanded  for  his 
interference. 

"Faith,"  he  ansAvered,  "it  was  a  point  of  conscience 
with  me  ;  l)esides,  it  woidd  have  given  me  pleasure  to 
have  seen  his  Horse  engaged  with  my  Infantry,  if  he 
had   taken   anything  amiss." 

The  sum  tlius  gained  set  the  spendthrifts  up  :  and 
De    CJraiiiuionl    satisfied    his  conscience    by  giving  it 


86  DE  GRAMMONT'S  GENEROSITY. 

away,  to  a  certain  extent,  in  charity.  It  is  singular 
to  perceive  in  the  history  of  this  celebrated  man  tliat 
moral  taint  of  character  which  the  French  have  never 
lost :  this  total  absence  of  right  reasoning  on  all  points 
of  conduct,  is  coupled  in  our  Gallic  neighbors  with  the 
greatest  natural  benevolence,  Avith  a  generosity  only 
kept  back  by  poverty,  with  impulsive,  impressionable 
dispositions,  that  require  the  guidance  of  a  sound  Prot- 
estant faith  to  elevate  and  correct  them. 

The  Chevalier  hastened,  it  is  related,  to  find  out  dis- 
tressed comrades,  officers  Avho  had  lost  their  baggage,  or 
who  had  been  ruined  by  gaming  ;  or  soldiers  Avho  had 
been  disabled  in  the  trenches  ;  and  his  manner  of  re- 
lievin<T  them  was  as  (!;raceful  and  as  delicate  as  the 
bounty  he  distributed  Avas  Avelcome.  He  was  the 
darling  of  the  army.  The  poor  soldier  knew  him 
personally,  and  adored  him  ;  the  general  Avas  sure  to 
meet  him  in  the  scenes  of  action,  and  to  seek  his 
company  in  those  of  security. 

And,  having  thus  retrieved  his  finances,  the  gay- 
hearted  Chevalier  used,  henceforth,  to  make  De  Cam- 
eran  go  halves  Avitli  him  in  all  games  in  Avhich  the 
odds  Avere  in  his  own  favor.  Even  the  staid  Calvinist, 
Turenne,  who  had  not  then  renounced,  as  he  did  in 
after-life,  the  Protestant  faith,  deliglited  in  the  off-hand 
nu^rriniciit  of  tlie  Clicvalief.  It  was  towa.rds  the  end  of 
the  siege  (tf  Trino,  that  De  Graniuiont  went  to  visit  that 
irencral  in  some  new  (luarters,  where  Tnrenne  I'eceivetl 
him,  surro'.iiKh'd  by  fifleeii  or  twentv  itllieers.      Accord- 


A   I1(JK.SE   -'FOK   TlIK   (  AKDS."  87 

iii^  to  the  custom  of  the  day,  cards  were  introduced, 
and  the  general  asked  the  Chevalier  to  iday. 

"  Sir,"  returned  the  young  soldier,  "my  tutor  taught 
me  that  wlien  a  iimn  goes  to  see  his  friends  it  is  neither 
prudent  to  leave  his  own  money  behind  him  nor  civil  to 
take  theirs." 

"Well,  "  answered  Tintiine,  "I  can  tell  you  you 
will  liiid  neither  much  money  nor  deep  })lay  among 
us;  hilt  that  it  cannot  be  said  that  we  allowed  you  to 
go  off  without  playing,  suppose  we  each  of  us  stake  a 
horse." 

De  Grammont  agreed,  and,  lucky  as  ever,  Avon  from 
the  officers  some  iifteen  or  sixteen  horses,  by  way  of  a 
joke;  but  seeing  several  faces  pale,  he  said,  "  Gentle- 
men, I  should  be  sorry  to  see  you  go  away  from  your 
general's  quarters  on  foot ;  it  will  do  very  well  if  you 
all  send  me  to-morrow  your  horses,  except  one,  which 
I  give  for  the  cards." 

The  valet-de-chambre  thought  he  was  jesting.  "I 
am  serious,"  cried  the  Chevalier.  ''Parole  d'honneur 
I  give  a  horse  for  the  cards ;  and  what's  more,  take 
which  you  please,  only  don't  take  mine." 

"Faith,"  said  Turenne,  pleased  with  the  novelty  of 
the  iifVaiv,  "  1  don't  believe  a  horse  was  ever  before 
iXiviMi    tor   tlic   cards." 

Young  p('()|ih',  :ind  indcc*!  old  people,  c;in  perhaps 
hardlv  rriiunibcr  tlic  time  when,  even  in  I^ngland, 
money  used  to  be  put  under  the  candlesticks  "for  the 
cards."  as  it  was  said,  luii  in  fact  for  the  servants,  who 


88  KNIGHT-CICISEEISM. 

waited.  Winner  or  loser,  the  tax  Avas  to  l)e  paid,  and 
this  custom  of  vails  was  also  prevalent  in  France. 

Trino  at  last  surrendered,  and  the  two  friends  rushed 
from  their  campaigning  life  to  enjoy  the  gayeties  of 
Turin,  at  that  time  the  centre  of  pleasure  ;  and  resolved 
to  perfect  their  characters  as  military  heroes — by  foiling 
in  love,  if  respectably,  well ;  if  disreputably,  well  too, 
perhaps  all  the  more  agreeable,  and  venturesome,  as 
they  thought. 

The  court  of  Turin  was  then  presided  over  by  the 
Duchess  of  Savoy,  Madame  Royale,  as  she  was  called 
in  France,  the  daughter  of  Henry  IV.  of  France,  the 
sister  of  Henrietta  Maria  of  England.  She  was  a 
woman  of  talent  and  spirit,  Avorthy  of  her  descent, 
and  had  certain  other  qualities  Avhich  constituted  a 
point  of  resemblance  betAvecn  her  and  her  father ;  she 
was,  like  him,  more  fascinating  than  respectable. 

The  customs  of  Turin  Avere  rather  Italian  than 
French.  At  that  time  every  lady  had  her  {)rofessed 
lover,  Avho  wore  the  liveries  of  his  mistress,  bore  her 
arms,  and  sometimes  assumed  her  very  name.  The 
office  of  the  lover  Avas,  never  to  (juit  liis  lady  in  puldic, 
and  never  to  approach  her  in  private:  to  be  on  all 
occasions  lier  esquire.  In  tlie  tournament  her  chosen 
knight-cicisbeo  came  fortli  witli  liis  coat,  his  housino^s, 
liis  very  lance  distinguished  Avith  tbe  cypliei'S  and 
colors  of  ber  wlio  bad  condescended  to  invest  bim 
Avith  her  preference.  It  was  tbe  remnant  of  chivah-v 
tliat   authorized  ibis  custdiii  ;    but  of  cbivab'v  dciiinral- 


1)K  (JKA.M.MoNTS    FlIiST    I.oVE.  89 

izcd — {liivalry  dcnudcil  of  her  purity,  her  rcsj)C'ct,  the 
cliiv;ilry  of  corrupted  Italy,  not  of  that  which,  perhaps, 
faUaciously,  \ve  assiixn  to  tlie  I'arlier  a<^es. 

Granunont  and  Matta  enlisted  themselves  at  once  in 
the  service  of  two  hcaiities.  Graininont  chose  for  tlie 
([iiccii  (if  licaiity,  ^vho  was  to  "rain  inlhience  "  ujion 
him,  Mademoiselle  de  St.  Germain,  Avho  was  in  the 
very  Idooni  of  youth.  Siie  was  French,  and,  probably, 
an  ancestress  of  that  all-accomplished  Comtc  de  St. 
Germain,  wliose  exjiloits  so  dazzled  successive  Euro- 
])ean  courts,  and  the  fullest  account  of  whom,  in  all  its 
brilliant  colors,  yet  tinged  w  ith  mystery,  is  given  in  the 
Memoirs  of  Maria  Antoinette,  by  the  Marquise  d'Ad- 
hemar,  her  ladv  of  the  l)ed-chand)cr. 

The  lovely  object  of  De  Gramniont's  "first  love" 
was  a  radiant  brunette  belle,  Avho  took  no  pains  to  set 
oft'  by  art  the  charms  of  nature.  She  had  some 
defects:  her  black  and  s|)arkling  eyes  were  small; 
her  ibrehead,  l)y  no  means  "as  pure  as  mooidi^ht 
slee]iing  upon  snow,"  was  not  fair,  neither  were  her 
hands;  neither  had  she  small  fiH-t — but  her  ibrm 
generally  was  jierfect  ;  her  elbows  had  a  peculiar 
elegance  in  them  ;  and  in  old  times  to  iiold  the  elbow 
out  well,  and  yet  not  to  slick  it  out,  was  a  point  of 
earlv  ilisciplinc.  Then  her  glossy  black  hair  set  off 
a  sii|icrb  neck  and  shoulders;  and,  nu)reover,  she  was 
gay,  lull  of  mirth,  life,  complaisance,  ]>erfect  in  all  the 
acts  of  politeness,  aiul  invariable  in  ]\cy  gracious  and 
ijracelul    bearin<i;. 


90  KNIGIIT-CICISBEISM. 

Matta  admired  her ;  but  De  Gramraont  ordered  him 
to  attach  himself  to  the  Marquise  de  Senantes,  a  mar- 
ried beauty  of  the  court ;  and  Matta,  in  full  faith  that 
all  Grammont  said  and  did  was  sure  to  succeed,  obeyed 
his  friend.  The  Chevalier  had  fallen  in  love  with 
Mademoiselle  de  St.  Germain  at  first  sight,  and 
instantly  arrayed  himself  in  her  color,  which  was 
green,  whilst  Matta  wore  l)lue,  in  compliment  to  the 
marquise ;  and  they  entered  the  next  day  upon  duty, 
at  La  Venerie,  where  the  Duchess  of  Savoy  gave  a 
grand  entertainment.  De  Grammont,  with  his  native 
tact  and  unscrupulous  mendacity,  played  his  part  to 
perfection  ;  but  his  comrade,  Matta,  committed  a  hun- 
dred solecisms.  The  very  second  time  he  honored  the 
marquise  with  his  attentions,  he  treated  her  as  if  she 
Avcre  his  humble  servant :  when  he  pressed  her  hand, 
it  was  a  pressure  that  almost  made  her  scream.  When 
he  ought  to  have  ridden  by  the  side  of  her  coach,  he 
set  off,  on  seeing  a  hare  start  from  her  form  ;  then  he 
talked  to  her  of  partridges  when  he  should  have  been 
laving  himself  at  her  feet.  Both  these  affairs  ended 
as  might  have  been  expected.  Mademoiselle  de  St. 
Germain  was  diverted  by  Grammont,  yet  he  could  not 
touch  her  heart.  Her  aim  was  to  marry ;  his  was 
merely  to  attach  himself  to  a  reigning  lieauty.  'fhey 
parted  without  regret;  and  be  left  the  tbeii  ivmote 
court  (»f  Turin  for  tlie  gayer  sceru's  of  Paris  and 
Versailles.  Here  be  became  as  celeb ra led  for  bis 
alertness  in  })la.y  as  fur  liis  readiness  in   lepartee;  a.s 


Ills    WiriV    ATTACKS   ON    MAZAKIN.  Ul 

iiotcil  lor  his  intrigues,  as  he  afterwards  was  for  his 
hr.n  crv. 

Those  were  stirriii"- ihivs  in  Franec.  Aiiiie  of  Austria, 
tlu  II  ill  hi'i-  maturity,  was  governed  by  Mazarin,  the 
most  aitfiil  of  ministers,  an  Italian  to  tlie  very  lieart's 
core,  with  a  h)ve  of  amassing  wealth  engrafted  in  his 
siipjiU'  nature  tliat  amounted  to  a  monomania.  The 
whole  aim  of  his  life  was  gain.  Though  gaming  was 
at  its  height,  INIazarin  never  jilayed  for  amusement; 
he  [ilayed  to  enrich  himself;  and  when  he  played,  he 
cheated. 

The  Chevalier  dc  Grammont  was  now  rich,  and 
Mazarin  worshipped  the  rich.  He  was  witty ;  and 
his  wit  soon  procured  him  admission  into  the  cli(iuc 
wliom  the  wily  Mazarin  collected  around  him  in  Paris. 
Whatever  Avere  Dc  Grammont's  faults,  he  soon  per- 
ceived those  of  Mazarin  ;  he  detected,  and  he  detested, 
the  Avily,  grasping,  serpent-like  attributes  of  the  Italian  ; 
he  attacked  him  on  every  occasion  on  which  a  "  wit 
combat  "  was  possible  :  he  gracefully  showed  Mazarin 
olV  in  his  true  colors.  "With  ease  he  annihilated  him, 
metaphorically,  at  his  own  table.  Yet  De  Grammont 
had  something  to  atone  for:  he  had  been  the  adherent 
and  nniipaiiion  in  arms  of  Conde ;  he  iiad  followed 
that  hero  to  Sens,  to  Nordlin^en,  to  Fribouro;,  and 
li;id  rriiini('(l  to  his  alh'giance  to  the  young  king, 
Louis  XIV.,  onlv  because  he  wislied  to  visit  the  court 
al  Paris.  Mazarin's  polit-y,  however,  was  tiiat  of  |iar- 
don   and   peace — of  duplicity   and   treachery — and   the 


92  DE  GRAMMO^'T'S  INDEPENDENCE. 

Chevalier  seemed  to  be  forgiven  on  his  return  to  Paris, 
even  by  Anne  of  Austria.  Nevertheless,  De  Gram- 
mont  never  lost  his  independence  ;  and  he  could  boast 
in  after-life  that  he  owed  the  two  great  cardinals  who 
had  governed  France  nothing  that  they  could  have 
refused.  It  was  true  that  Richelieu  had  left  him  his 
abbacy ;  but  he  could  not  refuse  it  to  one  of  De 
Grammont's  rank.  From  Mazarin  he  had  ij-ained 
nothing  except  what  he  had  Avon  at  play. 

After  jNIazarin's  death  the  Chevalier  intended  to 
secure  the  favor  of  the  king,  Louis  XIV.,  to  wliom,  as 
he  rejoiced  to  find,  court  alone  was  now  to  be  paid, 
lie  had  now  somewhat  rectified  his  distinctions  be- 
tween rio-ht  and  wrono;,  and  was  resolved  to  have  no 
regard  for  favor  unless  supported  by  merit ;  he  deter- 
mined to  make  himself  beloved  by  the  courtiers  of 
Louis,  and  feared  by  the  ministers  ;  to  dare  to  under- 
take anything  to  do  good,  ami  to  engage  in  nothing 
at  the  expense  of  innocence.  He  still  continued  to 
be  eminently  successful  in  play,  of  which  he  did  not 
perceive  the  evil,  nor  allow  the  wickedness;  but 
he  was  unfortunate  in  love,  in  which  he  was  equally 
unscrupulous  and  more  rash  than  at  the  gaming- 
table. 

Among  tlie  in;iids  of  honor  of  Anne  of  Austria  was 
a  young  huly  nimuMl  Anne  Lucie  de  la  Mothc  IToudan- 
court.  Louis,  though  not  long  man'ied,  slutwed  some 
symptoms  of  iidmiration  for  this  (Ubutantc  in  the 
wicked   w;ivs  of  the  court. 


ANNK  LUCII':   DE   I. A    MoTlIi;   IKJL'DANCOUKT.    JKJ 

G:iy,  r:i(li;iiit  in  flic  liluoin  <t{'  vuiiili  ;iih1  iiinoconce, 
tlic  story  of  lliis  voiiiiir  <^'\v\  presents  an  iii.-t;incc  oC  tlic 
unliappiness  uliicli,  Avitliout  i^nilt,  the  sins  oC  others 
brini^  n|)on  even  the  vii'tuoiis.  T\\v  ((iieen-dowanrer, 
Anne  of"  Austria,  Avas  livin;^  at  St.  Gcrmains  Avhen 
Madcmnisene  de  hi  Mothc  Iloiulancourt  ■was  received 
into  licr  househohl.  Tlie  Diiehess  de  Noailles,  at  that 
time  Grande  Maitressc,  exercised  a  vigilant  and 
kindly  rule  over  the  maids  of  honor;  nevertheless,  she 
could  not  prevent  their  being  liable  to  the  attentions 
of  Louis:  she  forbade  liim  however  to  loiter,  or  indeed 
even  to  be  seen  in  the  room  appropriated  to  the  young 
damsels  under  her  charge;  and  when  attracted  by  the 
beauty  of  Anne  Lucie  de  la  Mothe,  Louis  was  obliged 
to  speak  to  her  through  a  hole  behind  a  clock  Avhieh 
stood  in  a  corridor. 

Anne  Lucie,  notwithstanding  this  apparent  encour- 
agement of  the  king's  addresses,  was  perfectly  indilTer- 
ent  to  his  admiration.  She  was  secretly  attached  to 
the  Mar(juis  de  liichelieu,  who  had,  or  pretended  to 
have,  honorable  intentions  towards  her.  Everything 
was  tried,  but  tried  in  vain,  to  induce  the  poor  girl  to 
give  up  all  her  predilections  for  the  sake  of  a  guilty 
distinction — that  of  being  the  king's  mistress :  even 
her  mother  reproached  her  with  her  coldness,  A 
family  council  was  held,  in  hopes  of  convincing  her  of 
her  wilfulness,  and  Anne  Tjucie  was  bitterly  reproached 
by  liei-  female  relatives  ;  but  her  heart  still  clung  to  the 
faithless  Marquis   do  Richelieu,  Avho,  however,   when 


94  BESET  WITH  SNARES. 

he  saw  that  a  royal  lover  was  his  rival,  meanly  with- 
drew. 

Her  fall  seemed  inevital)le;  ))ut  tlie  firmness  of 
Anne  of  Austria  saved  her  from  her  ruin.  That 
(jueen  insisted  on  lier  lieini;  sent  away;  and  she  re- 
sisted even  the  entreaties  of  the  queen,  her  daughter- 
in-law,  and  tlie  wife  of  Louis  XIV. ;  who,  for  some 
reasons  not  explained,  entreated  that  the  young  lady 
miglit  remain  at  the  court.  Anne  was  sent  away  in  a 
sort  of  disgrace  to  the  convent  of  Cha'illot,  which  Avas 
then  considered  to  l)e  (juite  out  of  Paiis,  and  suf- 
ficiently secluded  to  protect  her  from  visitors.  Ac- 
cording to  another  account,  a  letter  full  of  reproaches, 
whicli  slie  wrote  to  the  Marquis  de  Richelieu  upbraid- 
ing him  for  his  desertion,  had  been  intercepted. 

It  was  to  this  young  lady  that  De  Grammont,  who 
was  then,  in  the  very  centre  of  the  court,  "  the  type  of 
fashion  and  the  mould  of  form,"  attached  himself  to 
her  as  an  admirer  who  could  condescend  to  honor  with 
his  attentions  those  Avhom  the  king  pursued.  The 
once  gay  girl  was  thus  beset  witli  snares:  on  one  side 
was  the  kinir,  whose  (liso;ustin<]i;  preference  was  shown 
Avhen  in  her  presence  by  sighs  and  sentiment ;  on  the 
other,  De  Grammont,  whose  attentions  to  her  were 
importunate,  but  failed  to  convince  her  that  he  was  in 
love ;  on  the  otlier  was  the  time-serving,  heartless  De 
Richelieu,  whom  her  reason  condemned,  but  whom  her 
heart  cherished.  Slie  soon  sIiowcmI  lier  distrust  and 
dislike  of  De  Gi'ammont:  she  treated  him  witli  con- 


DK  CUAMMONTS   VISITS  To   KX(iLAND.         95 

tempt;  slic  tlifcntciicil  liim  with  exposure,  yet  he  would 
Hot  desist:  tlicn  she  eoinplaiiicil  nC  liini  to  tlic  Kiuij;. 
It  Wiis  tlicii  tliiif  lie  iicrccivcil  tlint  tlioULdi  lovccoiild 
e(|uali'/e  coiiditjons,  it  eould  not  act  in  the  same  way 
between  ii\;ds.  lie  was  commanded  to  leave  tlio 
court.  I'.iris.  tlici'ct'ore,  Versailles,  Foiitaincltlcaiu  and 
St.  (Icrniains  wri'c  i-IosimI  au'ainst  this  j^ay  ChcNalicr; 
and  liow  coidil  he  live  elsewhere?  AVhither  could  he 
go?  Strange  to  say,  he  had  a  vast  fancy  to  behold 
the  man  who,  stained  with  the  crime  of  regicide,  and 
sprung  from  the  people,  was  receiving  magniiicent 
embassies  from  continental  nations,  whilst  Charles  II. 
was  seeking  security  in  his  exile  from  the  power  of 
Si)aiii  in  the  Tiow  Countries.  He  was  eager  to  see 
the  Protector,  Cromwell.  But  Cromwell,  tliou'ili  in 
the  heifflit  of  his  fame  when  beheld  bv  De  Grainmont 
— though  feared  at  home  and  abroad — was  little  calcu- 
lated to  win  suffrage  from  a  mere  man  of  pleasure  like 
De  Grammont.  The  court,  the  city,  the  countiy,  were 
in  his  days  gloomy,  discontented,  joyless:  a  proscribed 
nol)iritv  was  the  sure  cause  of  the  thin  thou2:li  few 
festivities  of  the  now  lugubrious  gallery  of  Whitehall. 
Puritanism  drove  the  old  jovial  churchmen  into  retreat, 
and  disi)elleil  every  lingering  vestige  of  ancient  hosjii- 
tality :  long  graces  and  long  sermons,  sanctimonious 
manners,  and  grim,  sad  faces,  and  sad-colored  dresses 
were  not  much  to  De  Grammont's  taste ;  he  returned 
to  France,  and  declared  that  he  had  gained  no  advan- 
tage from  his  travels.     Nevertheless,  either  from  choice 


9G  CHARLES  II. 

or  necessity,  lie  made  anotlier  trial  of  the  damps  and 
foo-s  of  Enojland.* 

When  he  again  visited  our  country,  Charles  II.  had 
been  two  years  seated  on  the  throne  of  his  fother. 
Everything  was  changed,  and  the  British  court  Avas  in 
its  fullest  splendor ;  whilst  the  rejoicings  of  the  people 
of  England  at  the  Restoration  were  still  resounding 
throui»;h   the  land. 

If  one  could  include  royal  personages  in  the  rather 
gay  than  worthy  category  of  the  "  wits  and  beaux  of 
society,"  Charles  II.  should  figure  at  their  head.  He 
was  the  most  agreeable  companion,  and  the  worst  king 
imaginable.  In  the  first  place,  he  was,  as  it  were,  a 
citizen  of  the  world :  tossed  about  by  fortune  from  his 
early  boyhood ;  a  witness  at  the  tender  age  of  twelve 
of  the  battle  of  Edge  Hill,  where  the  celebrated  Har- 
vey had  charge  of  him  and  of  his  brother.  That  in- 
auspicious commencement  of  a  wandering  life  had  per- 
haps been  amongst  the  least  of  his  early  trials.  The 
fiercest  was  his  long  residence  as  a  sort  of  royal  prisoner 
in  Scotland.  A  travelled,  humbled  man,  he  came  back 
to  England  with  a  full  knowledge  of  men  and  manners, 
in  the  prime  of  his  life,  with  spirits  unbroken  by  ad- 
versity, with  a  heart  unsoured  by  that  "  stern  nurse," 
Avith  a  gayety  that  was  always  kindly,  never  uncourt- 
eous,  ever  more  French  than  English  ;  far  more  natural 

'  M.  »lo  (irainmdiit  visited  En.i^land  duritit;;  tlie  Protectorate. 
His  second  visit,  after  being  forbidden  the  coinl  by  Louis  XIV., 
was  in  10(52. 


LIFE  AT   WHITEHALL.  1)7 

(lid  he  appear  as  the  son  of  Henrietta  Maria  than  as 
the  offsprin<^  of  the  thoughtful  Cliarlcs. 

In  person,  too,  the  king  was  then  agreeable,  though 
rather  -what  the  French  Avould  call  distingue  than  dig- 
nified ;  he  was,  however,  tall,  and  somewhat  elegant, 
with  a  long  French  face,  which  in  his  boyhood  was 
jdunip  and  full  about  the  lower  part  of  the  cheeks,  but 
now  began  to  sink  into  that  well-known,  lean,  dark, 
flexible  countenance,  in  which  we  do  not,  however, 
recognize  the  gayety  of  the  man  whose  very  name 
brings  with  it  associations  of  gayety,  politeness,  good 
company,  and  all  the  attributes  of  a  first-rate  wit,  ex- 
cept the  almost  inevitable  ill-nature.  There  is  in  the 
physiognomy  of  Charles  II.  that  melancholy  which  is 
often  observable  in  the  faces  of  those  who  are  mere  men 
of  jdeasure. 

De  Grammont  found  himself  completely  in  his  own 
sphere  at  Whitehall,  where  the  habits  were  far  more 
French  than  English.  Along  that  stately  iNIall,  over- 
shadowed with  mubrageous  trees,  which  retains — and 
it  is  to  be  hoped  ever  will  retain — the  old  name  of  the 
"  Birdcage  Walk,"  one  can  picture  to  one's  self  the  king 
walking  so  fast  that  no  one  can  keep  up  with  him  ;  yet 
stopping  from  time  to  time  to  chat  with  some  acquaint- 
ances. He  is  walking  to  Duck  Island,  which  is  full  of 
his  favorite  water-fowl,  and  of  which  he  has  given  St. 
Evremond  the  government.  How  pleasant  is  his  talk 
to  those  who  attend  him  as  he  walks  alonji :  how  well 
the  quality  of  good-nature  is  shown  in  his  love  of  dumb 
Vol..  I.— 7 


98  COURT  OF  CHAELES  II. 

animals  ;  how  completely  lie  is  a  boy  still,  even  in  that 
brown  wig  of  many  curls,  and  with  the  George  and 
Garter  on  his  breast !  Boy,  indeed,  for  he  is  followed 
by  a  litter  of  young  spaniels :  a  little  brindled  grey- 
hound frisks  beside  him  ;  it  is  for  that  he  is  ridiculed 
by  the  '■^psahn  "  sung  at  the  Calves'  Head  Club  :  these 
favorites  were  cherished  to  his  death. 

"His  dogs  would  sit  in  council  boards 
Like  judges  in  their  seats: 
We  question  much  which  liad  most  sense, 
The  master  or  the  curs." 

Then  what  capital  stories  Charles  would  tell,  as  he 
unbent  at  night  amid  the  faithful,  tliough  profligate, 
companions  of  his  exile  !  lie  told  his  anecdotes,  it  is 
true,  over  and  over  again,  yet  they  were  always  embel- 
lished with  some  fresh  touch — like  the  repetition  of  a 
song  which  has  been  encored  (in  (lie  staf>;e.  Whether 
from  his  inimitable  art,  or  from  his  royalty,  wo  leave 
others  to  guess,  but  his  stories  bore  repetition  again 
and  again :  they  were  amusing,  and  even  novel  to  the 
very  last. 

To  this  seducing  court  did  De  Grammont  now  come. 
Tt  was  a,  deliiihtful  exchange  from  the  endk'ss  cere- 
monies  and  punctilios  of  the  region  over  which  Louis 
XIV.  presided.  Wherever  (Hiarles  was,  his  palace 
appeared  to  resemble  a  large  hospitable  ]u)usc — some- 
times town,  sometimes  country — in  whicli  every  one 
did  as  he  liked  ;   and  wliciv  distinctions  of  rank  wei'e 


INTRODUCTION  OF  COUNTRY   DANCES.  99 

kept  up   as  a  matter  of  convenience,  but  were  only 
valued  on  that  score. 

In  other  respects,  Charles  had  modelle<l  his  court 
very  much  on  the  i)lan  of  that  of  Louis  XIV.,  which 
lie  liail  admired  for  its  gayety  and  spirit.  Corneillc, 
Racine,  Moliere,  Boileau,  were  encouraged  by  le  Grand 
Monarque.  "Wycherley  and  Di-yden  were  attracted  by 
Charles  to  celebrate  the  festivities,  and  to  amuse  the 
great  and  the  gay.  In  various  points  De  Grammont 
found  a  resemblance.  The  queen-consort,  Catherine 
of  Braganza,  was  as  complacent  to  her  husband's  vices 
as  the  queen  of  Louis.  These  royal  ladies  were  merely 
first  sultanas,  and  had  no  right,  it  was  thought,  to  feel 
jealousy,  or  to  resent  neglect.  Each  returning  Sab- 
bath saw  Whitehall  lighted  up,  and  heard  the  tabors 
sdiiiid  for  a  ^>ranZ«  (Anglicized  "  brawl  ").  This  was 
a  dance  which  mixed  up  evervbodv,  and  called  a 
brawl,  from  the  foot  being  shaken  to  a  quick  time. 
Gayly  did  his  Majesty  perform  it,  leading  to  the  hot 
exercise  Anne  Hyde,  Duchess  of  York,  stout  and 
homely,  and  leaving  Lady  Castlemaine  to  his  son, 
tlie  Duke  of  Monmouth.  Then  Charles,  with  ready 
grace,  would  bc^iii  tlic  coranto,  taking  a  single  lady 
in  this  dance  along  the  gallery.  Lords  and  ladies  one 
after  another  folloAved,  and  ''  very  noble,"  writes  Pepys, 
"and  great  pleasure  it  was  to  see."  Next  came  the 
country  dances,  introduced  by  Mary,  Countess  of 
Buckingham,  the  grandmother  of  the  graceful  duke 
who  is  moving  along  the  gallery  ; — and  she  invented 


100  NOKMAN  PECULIARITIES. 

those  once  popular  dances  in  order  to  introduce,  Avith 
less  chance  of  failure,  her  rustic  country  cousins,  ■who 
could  not  easily  be  taught  to  carry  themselves  Avell  in 
the  brawl,  or  to  step  out  gracefully  in  the  coranto,  both 
of  which  dances  required  practice  and  time.  In  all 
these  dances  the  king  shines  the  most,  and  dances 
much  better  than  his  brother  the  Duke  of  York. 

In  these  gay  scenes  De  Grammont  met  with  the 
most  fashionable  belles  of  the  court :  fortunately  for 
him  they  all  spoke  French  tolerably  ;  and  he  quickly 
made  himself  welcome  amon<>-st  even  the  few — and 
few  indeed  there  wxn'e — who  plumed  themselves  upon 
untainted  reputations.  Hitherto  those  French  noble- 
men who  had  presented  themselves  in  England  had 
been  poor  and  al^surd.  The  court  had  been  thronged 
with  a  troop  of  impertinent  Parisian  coxcombs,  wdio 
had  pretended  to  despise  everything  English,  and  who 
treated  the  natives  as  if  they  were  foreigners  in  their 
own  country.  De  Grammont,  on  the  contrary,  was 
f^imiliar  with  every  one :  he  ate,  he  drank,  he  lived,  in 
short,  according  to  tlie  custom  of  the  country  that  hos- 
pitably received  him,  and  accorded  him  the  more  respect 
because  they  had  been  insulted  by  others. 

He  now  introduced  the  petits  soujjers,  wdiich  have 
never  been  understood  anywhere  so  well  as  in  France, 
and  whicli  are  even  there  dying  out  to  make  way  for 
the  less  social  and  more  expensive  dinner;  l)ut,  per- 
haps, he  would  even  here  liavc  been  unsuccessful,  had 
it  not  been  f(»r  tlie  society  and  ;idvice  of  the  famous  St. 


(f  i)arlr«  tir  5t.  i5lnTmontr. 
^figucuv  tic  5t.  IBcim  k  (CJuast 


ST.  EVREMOND.  KH 

Evrcinond,  avIio  at  tliis  time  was  exiled  in  France,  mid 
took  refuse  in  England. 

This  celebrated  and  accoinplislied  man  liail  some 
points  of  resemblance  with  De  Grammont.  Like  liim, 
he  had  been  originally  intended  for  the  church  ;  like 
him,  he  had  turned  to  the  military  profession  ;  he  was 
an  cnsicrn  before  he  was  full  sixteen  ;  and  had  a  com- 
pany  of  foot  given  him  after  serving  two  or  three  cam- 
paigns. Like  Dc  Grammont,  he  owed  the  facilities  of 
his  early  career  to  his  being  the  descendant  of  an  ancient 
and  honorable  family.  St.  Evremondwas  the  Seigneur 
of  St.  Denis  le  Guast,  in  Normandy,  where  he  was  born. 

Both  these  sparkling  wits  of  society  had  at  one 
time,  and,  in  fact,  at  the  same  period,  served  under 
the  great  Conde  ;  both  Avere  pre-eminent,  not  only  in 
literature,  but  in  games  of  cliance.  St.  Evremond 
was  famous  at  the  L'niversity  of  Caen,  in  whieli  he 
studied,  for  his  fencing;  and  "St.  Evremond's  pass" 
was  well  known  to  swordsmen  of  his  time; — both 
Avere  gay  and  satirical ;  neither  (jf  them  pretended 
to  rigid  morals ;  1)ut  both  were  accounted  men  of 
honor  among  their  fellow-men  of  jjleasure.  They 
were  graceful,  kind,  generous. 

In  person  St.  Evremond  liad  the  advantage,  being 
a  Nonnan — a  race  which  combines  the  handsomest 
traits  of  an  English  countenance  with  its  blond  hair, 
blue  eyes,  and  fair  skin.  Neither  does  the  slight 
tinge  of  the  Gallic  race  detract  from  the  attractions 
of  a  true-,  well-born  Norman,  bred  up  in  that  province 


102   ST.   EVEEMOND,   THE  HANDSOME  NORMAN. 

which  is  called  the  Court-end  of  France,  and  polished 
in  the  ca])ital.  Your  Norman  is  hardy,  and  fond  of 
field-sports :  like  tlic  Englishman,  he  is  usually  fear- 
less ;  generous,  but,  unlike  the  English,  somewhat 
crafty.  You  may  know  him  by  the  fresh  color,  the 
peculiar  blue  eye,  long  and  large;  by  his  joyousness 
and  look  of  health,  gathered  up  in  his  own  marshy 
country,  for  tlie  Norman  is  well  fed,  and  lives  on  the 
produce  of  rich  pasture-land,  with  cheapness  and  plenty 
around  him.  And  St.  Evremond  was  one  of  the  hand- 
somest specimens  of  this  fine  locality  (so  mixed  up  as 
it  is  with  7ts) ;  and  his  blue  eyes  sparkled  with  humor ; 
his  beautifully-turned  mouth  was  all  sweetness ;  and 
his  nol)le  forehead,  the  whiteness  of  which  Avas  set  off 
by  thick  dark  eyebrows,  was  expressive  of  his  great 
intelligence,  until  a  wen  grew  between  his  eyebrows, 
and  so  changed  all  the  expression  of  his  fiico  that  the 
Duchess  of  Mazarin  used  to  call  him  the  "  Old  Satyr." 
St.  Evremond  was  also  Norman  in  other  respects:  he 
called  himself  a  thorough  Roman  Catholic,  yet  he 
despised  the  superstitions  of  his  church,  and  prepared 
himself  for  death  without  them.  When  asked  by  an 
ecclesiastic  sent  expressly  from  the  court  of  Florence 
to  attend  his  death-bed,  if  he  "would  be  reconciled," 
he  answered,  "With  all  my  heart;  I  would  fain  ])e 
reconciled  to  my  stomacli,  which  no  longer  performs 
its  usual  functions."  And  his  talk,  we  are  told,  dur- 
ing the  fortnight  that  preceded  his  death,  was  not 
regret  for  a  life  we  should,  in  seriousness,  call  mis- 


THE  MOST  BKAUTIFUL  WOMAN   IN   EUROPE.   103 

spent,  but  because  })artri(l<:5es  and  pheasants  no  longer 
suited  his  condition,  and  lie  was  obliged  to  be  reduced 
to  l)oiled  meats.  No  one,  however,  could  tell  Avhat 
might  also  be  passing  in  bis  heart.  We  cannot  always 
judge  of  a  life,  any  more  than  of  a  drama,  by  its  last 
scene;  but  this  is  certain,  that  in  an  ago  of  blasphemy 
St.  Evremond  could  not  endure  to  hear  religion  insulted 
by  ridicule.  "  Common  decency,"  said  this  man  of 
the  world,  "  and  a  due  regard  to  our  fellow-creatures, 
would  not  permit  it."  He  diil  not,  it  seems,  refer  his 
displeasure  to  a  higher  source — to  the  presence  of  the 
Omniscient, — ^Yho  claims  from  us  all  not  alone  the 
tribute  of  uiii-  ])oi)r  fi-ail  hearts  in  serious  moments, 
but  the  deej)  reverence  of  every  thought  in  the  hours 
of  careless  pleasure. 

It  was  now  St.  Evremond  who  taught  Do  Grammont 
to  collect  around  him  the  wits  of  that  court,  so  rich  in 
attractions,  so  poor  in  honor  and  morality.  The  object 
of  St.  Evremond's  devotion,  though  he  had,  at  the 
era  of  the  Restoration,  passed  his  fiftieth  year,  Avas 
Ilortense  Mancini,  once  the  richest  heiress,  and  still 
the  most  beautiful  woman  in  Europe,  and  a  niece,  on 
her  mother's  side,  of  Cardinal  Mazarin.  TTortense 
had  been  educated,  after  the  age  of  six,  in  France. 
She  was  Italian  in  her  accomplishments,  in  her  reck- 
less, wild  disposition,  opposed  to  that  of  the  French, 
who  are  generally  calculating  and  wary,  even  in  their 
vices :  she  was  Italian  in  the  style  of  her  surj)assing 
beauty,    and    French    to  the   core    in    her    principles. 


104  THE  CHILD-WIFE. 

Ilortense,  at  the  age  of  thirteen,  had  been  married  to 
Armand  Due  de  Meilleraye  and  jNIayenne,  who  had 
fallen  so  desperately  in  love  with  this  beautiful  child, 
that  he  declared  "  if  he  did  not  marry  her  he  should 
die  in  three  months."  Cardinal  Mazarin,  although 
he  had  destined  his  niece  Mary  to  this  alliance,  gave 
his  consent  on  condition  that  the  duke  should  take  the 
name  of  Mazarin.  The  cardinal  died  a  year  after 
this  marriao;e,  leavino;  his  niece  Ilortense  the  enor- 
mous  fortune  of  X1,G25,000 ;  yet  she  died  in  tlie 
greatest  difficulties,  and  her  corpse  was  seized  by 
her  creditors. 

The  Due  de  INIayennc  proved  to  be  a  fanatic,  who 
used  to  waken  his  wife  in  the  dead  of  the  night  to  hear 
his  visions  ;  who  forbade  his  child  to  be  nursed  on  fast- 
days  ;  and  who  believed  himself  to  be  inspired.  After 
six  years  of  wretchedness  poor  Hortense  petitioned  for 
a  separation  and  a  division  of  property.  She  quitted 
her  husband's  home  and  took  refuge  first  in  a  nunnery, 
where  she  showed  her  unbelief,  or  her  irreverence,  by 
mixing  ink  with  holy-water,  that  the  poor  nuns  might 
black  their  faces  when  they  crossed  themselves ;  or,  in 
concert  with  Madame  de  Courcellcs,  another  handsome 
married  woman,  she  used  to  walk  through  the  dormi- 
tories in  the  dead  of  night,  with  a  number  of  little  dogs 
barking  at  their  heels ;  then  she  filled  two  great  chests 
that  were  over  the  dormitories  with  water,  which  ran 
over,  and,  penetrating  through  the  chinks  of  the  floor, 
wet  the  holy  sisters  in  their  beds.     At  length  all  this 


IIOKTENSE  MANCINI'S  ADVENTL'KES.        IUj 

sorry  gayety  was  stopped  Ijy  a  decree  that  Ilortense 
was  to  return  to  the  PaUiis  Mazarin,  ami  to  remain 
there  until  the  suit'  for  a  separation  should  he  decided. 
That  tlie  result  should  be  flivorable  was  doulitful :  tliere- 
forc,  one  fine  niglit  in  June,  16G7,  Hortense  escaped. 
She  dressed  herself  in  male  attire,  and,  attended  by  a 
female  servant,  managed  to  get  througli  the  gate  at 
Paris,  and  to  enter  a  carriage.  Tlien  she  fled  to  Swit- 
zerland ;  and,  had  not  her  flight  been  shared  by  the 
Chevalier  de  Kohan,  one  of  the  handsomest  men  in 
France,  one  could  hardly  have  blamed  an  escape  from 
a  half-lunatic  husband.  She  was  only  twenty-eight 
when,  after  various  adventures,  she  came  in  all  her 
unimpaired  beauty  to  England.  Charles  was  captivated 
by  her  charms,  and,  touched  by  her  misfortunes,  he  set- 
tled on  her  a  pension  of  =£4000  a  year,  and  gave  her 
rooms  in  St.  James's.     Waller  sang  her  praise : 

"When  through  the  world  fair  Mazarine  had  run, 
Bright  a.s  her  fellow-traveller,  the  sun: 
Hither  at  length  the  Roman  eagle  flies, 
As  the  last  triumph  of  her  conquering  eyes." 

If  Ilortense  failed  to  carry  off  from  the  Duchess  of 
Portsmouth — then  the  star  of  Whitehall — the  heart  of 
Charles,  she  found,  at  all  events,  in  St.  Evremond  one 
of  those  French,  platonic,  life-long  friends,  who,  as 
Chateaubriand  worshipped  Madame  Recaraier,  adored 
to  the  last  the  exiled  niece  of  Mazarin.  Every  day, 
when   in  her  old  age  and  his,  the  warmth  of  love  had 


106  LIFE  AT  CHELSEA. 

subsided  into  the  serener  affection  of  pitying,  and  yet 
admiring  friendship,  St.  Evremond  was  seen,  a  little 
old  man  in  a  black  coif,  carried  along  Pall  Mall  in  a 
sedan  chair,  to  the  apartment  of  Madame  Mazarin,  in 
St.  James's.  He  always  took  with  him  a  pound  of 
butter,  made  in  his  own  little  dairy,  for  her  breakfast. 
When  De  Graramont  was  installed  at  the  court  of 
Charles,  Hortense  was,  however,  in  her  prime.  Her 
house  at  Chelsea,  then  a  country  village,  was  famed 
for  its  society  and  its  varied  pleasures.  St.  Evremond 
has  so  well  described  its  attractions  that  his  words 
should  be  literally  given.  "  Freedom  and  discretion 
are  equally  to  be  found  there.  Every  one  is  made 
more  at  home  than  in  his  own  house,  and  treated  with 
more  respect  than  at  court.  It  is  true  that  there  are 
frequent  disputes  there,  but  they  are  those  of  know- 
ledge and  not  of  anger.  There  is  play  there,  but  it  is 
inconsiderable,  and  only  practised  for  its  amusement. 
You  discover  in  no  countenance  the  fear  of  losing,  nor 
concern  for  what  is  lost.  Some  are  so  disinterested  that 
they  are  reproached  for  expressing  joy  when  they  lose, 
and  regret  Avhen  they  win.  Thiy  is  followed  by  the 
most  excellent  repasts  in  the  world.  There  you  will 
find  whatever  delicacy  is  brought  from  France,  and 
whatever  is  curious  from  the  Indies.  Even  the  com- 
monest meats  have  the  rarest  relish  imparted  to  them. 
There  is  neither  a  plenty  which  gives  a  notion  of  ex- 
travagance, nor  a  frugality  that  discovers  penury  or 
meanness." 


ANlu.'DOTE  OF   LORD    DoKSKT.  1U7 

Wliat  an  assemblage  it  must  have  been  I  Here  lolls 
Cliarlcs,  Lord  IJuekliurst,  afterwards  Lord  Dorset,  tlie 
laziest,  in  matters  of  business  or  court  advancement — 
the  boldest,  in  jjoiiit  of  frolic  and  pleasure,  of  all  the 
wits  and  beaux  of  his  time.  His  youth  had  been  full 
of  adventure  and  of  dissipation.  "I  know  not  how  it 
is,"  said  AVilmot,  Lord  Rochester,  '"  but  my  Lord  Dor- 
set can  do  anvthin;:,  and  is  never  to  blame."  He  had, 
in  trutli,  a  heart ;  he  could  bear  to  hear  others  praised; 
he  despised  the  arts  of  courtiers ;  he  befriended  the  un- 
happy ;  he  was  the  most  engaging  of  men  in  manners, 
tlie  most  loval)le  and  accomplished  of  human  beings ; 
at  once  poet,  philanthro})ist,  and  wit;  he  was  also 
possessed  of  chivalric  notions,  and  of  daring  courage. 

Like  his  royal  master,  Lord  Dorset  had  travelled; 
and  when  made  a  gentleman  of  the  bedchamber  to 
Charles  IL,  he  was  not  unlike  his  sovereign  in  other 
traits ;  so  full  of  gayety,  so  high-bred,  so  lax,  so  court- 
eous, so  convivial,  that  no  supper  was  complete  without 
him:  no  circle  "  the  right  thing,"  unless  Buckhurst, 
as  he  was  long  called,  was  there  to  pass  the  bottle 
round,  and  to  keep  every  one  in  good-humor.  Yet, 
he  had  misspent  a  youth  in  reckless  immorality,  and 
had  e\cii  lieeu  in  Newgate  on  a  charge,  a  doubtful 
charge  it  is  true,  of  highway  robl)ery  and  murder,  but 
had  been  foun<l  guilty  of  manslaughter  oidy.  lie  was 
again  mixed  up  in  a  disgraceful  affair  with  Sir  Charles 
Scdley.  AVhen  ])r()ught  before  Sir  Robert  Hyde,  then 
Chief  Justice  of  the  Common  Pleas,  his  name  having 


108        LORD  DORSET  AS  A  ROET. 

been  mentioned,  the  jiulge  inc^uirecl  Avhether  that  was 
the  Bucklmrst  hitely  tried  for  robbery  ?  and  when  told 
it  was,  he  asked  him  whether  he  had  so  soon  forgotten 
his  deliverance  at  that  time  :  and  whether  it  would  not 
better  become  him  to  have  been  at  his  prayers  beg- 
ging God's  forgiveness  than  to  come  into  such  courses 
again  ? 

The  reproof  took  eifect,  and  Buckhurst  became  what 
was  then  esteemed  a  steady  man  ;  he  volunteered  and 
fought  gallantly  in  the  fleet  under  James  Duke  of 
York  :  and  he  completed  his  reform,  to  all  outward 
shoAV,  by  marrying  Lady  Falmouth.^  Buckhurst,  in 
society  the  most  good-tempered  of  men,  was  thus  re- 
ferred to  by  Prior,  in  his  poetical  epistle  to  Fleetwood 
Sheppard : 

"  When  crowding  folks,  with  strange  ill  faces, 
Were  making  legs,  anil  begging  places: 
And  some  with  patents,  some  with  merit, 
Tired  out  my  good  Lord  Dorset's  sjjirit." 

Yet  his  pen  was  full  of  malice,  whilst  his  heart  was 
tender  to  all.  Wilmot,  Lord  Rochester,  cleverly  said 
of  him  : — 

"For  pointed  satire  I  would  Buckhurst  chuse, 
The  best  good  man  with  the  worst-natured  muse." 

'  The  Earl  of  Dorset  married  Elizabeth,  widow  of  Charles  Berk- 
eley, Earl  of  Falmouth,  and  daughter  of  Ilervey  IJagot,  Es(].,  of 
Ripe  Hall,  Warwickshire,  who  died  williout  issue.  lie  married, 
Till  March,  KIHl-S,  Lady  Mary  ('om[)ton,  daughter  o{  James  Earl 
of  IS'oi1liainptt)U. 


LORD  ROCHESTER   l.\    11  IS  ZE.MTII.  109 

Still  more  celebrated  as  a  beau  and  wit  of  his  time 
^va.s  John  Wilniot,  Lord  Kochester.  He  was  the  son 
of  Lord  Wilmot,  the  cavalier  who  so  loyally  attended 
Charles  II.  after  the  battle  of  Worcester;  and,  as  the 
oHsprin^  of  that  royalist,  was  greeted  by  Lord  Claren- 
don, iluii  Chancellor  of  the  University  of  Oxford, 
when  he  took  his  deij-ree  as  Master  of  Arts,  with  a 
kiss.'  The  young  nobleman  then  travelled,  according 
to  custom  ;  ami  tlien,  most  uidiaj)pily  for  himself  and 
for  others,  whom  he  corrupted  by  his  example,  he  pre- 
sented himself  at  the  court  of  Charles  II.  He  was  at 
this  time  a  youth  of  eighteen,  and  one  of  tlie  hand- 
somest  persons  of  his  age.  The  flice  of  Buck  hurst 
was  hard  ami  plain  ;  tliat  of  De  Grammont  had  little 
to  redeem  it  but  its  varying  intelligence;  but  the 
countenance  of  the  young  Earl  of  Rochester  was  per- 
fectly synnnetrical :  it  was  of  a  long  oval,  with  large, 
thoughtful,  sleepy  eyes ;  the  eyebrows  arched  and  high 
above  them  ;  the  brow,  tliough  concealed  by  the  curls 
of  the  now  modest  wig,  was  high  and  smooth  ;  the  nose, 
delicately  shaped,  somewhat  aquiline;  the  mouth  fidl, 
but  perfectly  beautiful,  was  set  off  by  a  rouml  and 
weli-f'oruH'd  cliiii.  Such  was  Lord  Rochestei'  in  his 
zenith  :  and  as  be  came  forwar<l  on  state  occasions,  liis 
false  light  curls  lianging  down  on  his  shoulders — a 
cambric  kerchief  loosely  tied,  so  as  to  let  the  ends, 
worked    in    point,    fall    gracefully    down :    his    scarlet 

M^ord  Rochester  succeeded  to  tlie  Earldom  in   1G59.      It  was 
created  by  Charles  If.  in  1(352,  at  Paris. 


110  HIS  COUEAGE  AND  WIT. 

gown  in  folds  over  a  suit  of  light  steel  .armor — for 
men  had  become  carpet  knights  then,  and  the  coat  of 
mail  worn  by  the  brave  cavaliers  was  now  less  warlike, 
and  was  mixed  up  with  robes,  ruffles,  and  rich  hose — 
and  when  in  this  guise  he  appeared  at  Whitehall,  all 
admired ;  and  Charles  was  enchanted  Avith  the  sim- 
plicity, the  intelligence,  and  modesty  of  one  who  was 
then  an  ingenuous  youth,  with  good  aspirations,  and 
a  staid  and  decorous  demeanor. 

Woe  to  Lady  Rochester — woe  to  the  mother  who 
trusted  her  son's  innocence  in  that  vitiated  court ! 
Lord  Rochester  forms  one  of  the  many  instances  we 
daily  behold,  that  it  is  those  most  tenderly  cared  for, 
who  often  fall  most  deeply,  as  well  as  most  early,  into 
temptation.  He  soon  lost  every  trace  of  virtue — of 
principle,  even  of  deference  to  received  notions  of 
propriety.  For  a  while  there  seemed  hopes  that  he 
would  not  wholly  fall:  courage  was  his  inheritance, 
and  he  distinguished  himself  in  16G5,  when  as  a 
volunteer  he  went  in  (juest  of  the  Dutch  East  India 
fleet,  and  served  Avith  heroic  gallantry  under  Lord 
Sandwich.  And  when  he  returned  to  court,  there 
was  a  ])artial  improvement  in  his  conduct.  He  even 
looked  biU'k  upon  his  former  indiscretions  with  liorror: 
he  had  now  shared  in  the  realities  of  life :  he  had 
grasped  a  higli  ;iiid  honorabU'  ambition  ;  but  he  soon 
fell  away — soon  became  almost  a  castaway.  "For 
five  years,"  he  told  Rislio})  Burnet,  wlicn  on  bis  death- 
bed,  "I  was  never  sober."      His  I'eputation   as  a  wit 


Jolm  J^^dmot,  ^^ax\  of  L\orl)t'$tn-. 


mMJ^ 

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^^^S^HK^'' 

1 

■l             '^ps^'" 

Yz/i- 

J 

AS  A   WRITER  AND    A    MAX.  Ill 

must  rest,  in  the  present  day,  cliiedy  upon  productions 
wliicli  liave  long  since  been  condemned  us  unreadable. 
Strange  to  say,  when  not  under  the  influence  of  wine, 
lie  was  a  constant  student  of  classical  authors,  perhaps 
the  worst  reading  for  a  man  of  his  tendency  :  all  tliat 
was  satirical  and  im})urc  attracting  him  most.  Boileau, 
among  French  writers,  and  Cowley  among  the  English, 
Avere  his  favorite  authors.  He  also  read  many  books  of 
physic ;  for  long  before  thirty  his  constitution  was  so 
broken  by  his  life,  that  he  turned  his  attention  to 
remedies,  and  to  medical  treatment ;  and  it  is  remark- 
able how  many  men  of  dissolute  lives  take  up  the  same 
sort  of  reading,  in  the  vain  hope  of  repairing  a  course 
of  dissolute  living.  As  a  writer,  his  style  was  at  once 
forcible  and  lively  ;  as  a  companion,  he  was  wildly 
vivacious :  madly,  perilously,  did  he  outrage  decency, 
insult  virtue,  profane  religion.  Charles  II.  liked  him 
on  fu'st  ae([uaintance,  for  Rochester  was  a  man  of  the 
most  finished  and  fascinatinfj;  manners ;  but  at  len<i;th 
there  came  a  coolness,  and  the  witty  courtier  was 
banished  from  Whitehall.  Unhappily  for  himself,  he 
was  recalled,  and  commanded  to  wait  in  Loudon  until 
his  Majesty  should  choose  to  readmit  him  into  his 
presence. 

Disgiiises  and  practical  jokes  were  the  fashion  of  the 
(lav.  The  use  of  the  mask,  wliieh  was  put  down  by 
proelamation  soon  niter  the  accession  of  Queen  Anne, 
favored  a  series  of  praidvs  with  which  liord  Rochester, 
during  the  period  of  his  living  concealed  in  Lombui, 


112  BANISHED  FROM  COURT. 

diverted  himself.  The  success  of  his  scheme  was  per- 
feet.  He  established  himself,  since  he  could  not  go  to 
Whitehall,  in  the  City.  "  His  first  design,"  De  Gram- 
mont  relates,  "  was  only  to  be  initiated  into  the  mys- 
teries of  those  fortunate  and  happy  inhabitants ;  that  is 
to  say,  by  changing  his  name  and  dress,  to  gain  admit- 
tance to  their  feasts  and  entertainments.  ...  As  he 
was  able  to  adapt  himself  to  all  capacities  and  humors, 
he  soon  deeply  insinuated  himself  into  the  esteem  of 
the  substantial  wealthy  aldermen,  and  into  the  affec- 
tions of  their  more  delicate,  magnificent,  and  tender 
ladies ;  he  made  one  in  all  their  feasts  and  at  all  their 
assemblies  ;  and  whilst  in  the  company  of  the  husbands, 
he  declaimed  against  the  faults  and  mistakes  of  govern- 
ment, he  joined  their  wives  in  railing  against  the  prof- 
ligacy of  the  court  ladies,  and  in  inveighing  against  the 
king's  mistresses :  he  agreed  with  them,  that  the  in- 
dustrious poor  were  to  pay  for  these  cursed  extrava- 
gances ;  that  the  City  beauties  were  not  inferior  to 
those  at  the  other  end  of  the  town,  .  .  .  after  which, 
to  outdo  their  murmurings,  he  said  that  he  Avondered 
Whitehall  was  not  yet  consumed  by  fire  from  heaven, 
since  such  rakes  as  Rochester,  Killigrew,  and  Sidney 
were  suffered  there." 

This  conduct  endeared  him  so  much  to  the  City,  and 
made  him  so  welcome  at  their  clubs,  tliat  at  last  he  grew 
sick  of  their  cramming,  and  endless  invitations. 

He  now  tried  a  now  s])liere  of  action  ;  and  instead  of 
returning,  as  he  might  have  done,  to  the  court,  retreated 


CRKDl'LITY,    I'AST   AND  TMiESKNT.  ll;"l 

into  tlic  most  ()l)S('urc  corners  of  tlio  inctropolis;  mikI 
ii<raiii  <li:m;'inj'  his  naiiic  mikI  (Ircss,  gave  himself  out 
as  a  (iennan  doctor  iimiikmI  Bondo,  who  professed  to 
find  out  inscrutaljle  secrets,  and  to  apply  infallilde 
remedies;  to  know,  l)y  astrology,  all  the  past,  and  to 
foretell   the  future. 

If  the  reign  of  Charles  was  justly  deemed  an  age 
of  hi<i;h  civilization,  it  was  also  one  of  extreme  credulity. 
Unbelief  in  reliarion  went  hand  in  hand  with  hlind  faith 
in  astrology  and  witchcraft ;  in  omens,  divinations,  and 
prophecies :  neither  let  us  too  strongly  despise,  in  these 
their  foibles,  our  ancestors.  They  had  many  excuses 
for  their  superstitions  ;  and  for  their  fears,  false  as  their 
hopes,  and  equally  groundless.  The  circulation  of 
knowledge  was  limited:  the  jiu])lic  journals,  that  part 
of  the  press  to  which  we  now  owe  inexpressible  grati- 
tude for  its  general  accuracy,  its  enlarged  vicAvs,  its 
purity,  its  information,  Avas  then  a  meagre  statement 
of  dry  facts :  an  announcement,  not  a  commentary. 
"The  Flying  Post,"  the  "  Daily  Courant,"  the  names 
of  which  may  be  supposed  to  imply  speed,  never 
reached  lone  country  places  till  weeks  after  they  had 
been  printed  on  their  one  duodecimo  sheet  of  tliin  coarse 
paper.  Religion,  too,  just  emerging  into  glorious  light 
from  the  darkness  of  popery,  had  still  her  superstitions  ; 
and  the  mantle  that  priestcraft  had  contrived  to  throAv 
over  her  exquisite,  radiant,  and  simple  form,  was  not 
then  wholly  and  finally  withdrawn.  Romanism  still 
hovered  in  the  form  of  credulity. 

Vol.    I.— S 


114      "DR.  BEXDO"   AND  LA  BELLE  JENNINGS. 

But  now,  with  shame  be  it  spoken,  in  the  full  noon- 
day genial  splendor  of  our  Reformed  Church,  with 
neAvspapers,  the  leading  articles  of  which  rise  to  a 
level  with  our  greatest  didactic  Avriters,  and  are  com- 
petent even  to  form  the  mind  as  well  as  to  amuse  the 
leisure  hours  of  the  young  readers  :  with  every  species 
of  direct  communication,  we  yet  hold  to  fxllacies  from 
which  the  credulous  in  Charles's  time  would  have 
shrunk  in  dismay  and  disgust.  Table-turning,  spirit- 
rapping,  clairvoyance^  Swedenborgianism,  and  all  that 
family  of  follies,  Avould  have  been  far  too  strong  for 
the  faith  of  those  who  counted  upon  dreams  as  their 
guide,  or  looked  up  to  the  heavenly  planets  with  a 
belief,  partly  superstitious,  partly  reverential,  for  their 
guidance  ;  and  in  a  dim  and  flickering  faith  trusted  to 
their  stara. 

"  Dr.  Bendo,"  therefore,  as  Rochester  was  called — 
handsome,  Avitty,  unscrupulous,  and  perfectly  ac- 
quainted with  the  then  small  circle  of  the  court — 
was  soon  noted  for  his  wonderful  revelations.  Cham- 
ber-women, waiting-maids,  and  shop-girls  were  his  first 
customers :  l)ut,  very  soon,  gay  spinsters  from  the  court 
came  in  their  hoods  and  masks  to  ascertain,  with  anx- 
ious faces,  their  fortunes ;  whilst  the  cunning,  sar- 
castic "  Dr.  Bendo,"  noted  in  his  diary  all  the  in- 
trigues which  were  confided  to  him  by  these  lovely 
clients.  La  Belle  Jennings,  the  sister  of  Sarah 
Duchess  of  Marlborough,  was  among  his  disciples ; 
she  took  with  her  the  betiutiful  Miss  Price,  and,  dis- 


IllSIInl-    I'.URXET'S   DESCRIPTIOX.  115 

guisinuj  tliciiiselves  as  oranfi^o  ^ivls,  these  youn;:;  ladies 
set  oil"  ill  a  liaekncy-coacli  to  visit  Dr.  I'xnilo:  Imt 
•\vlieTi  \vitliiii  Iiair  a,  street  of  tlie  supposed  fortiiiic- 
tcllcr's,  ^vere  prevented  l>,v  tlic  interruption  of  a  dis- 
solute  court icr   iiaiiicd    IJroiinkcr. 

"  Evcrvtliiii'j:  liv  turns  and  notliiiiLi;  long."  When 
Lord  lloeliestcr  was  tired  of  being  an  astrologer,  ho 
used  to  roam  ahout  the  streets  as  a  beggar;  tlien  he 
kept  a  footman  who  knew  the  Court  well,  and  used  to 
dress  him  up  in  a  red  coat,  supply  him  with  a  ninsket, 
like  a  sentinel,  and  send  him  to  watch  at  the  doors  of 
all  tlic  fine  ladies,  to  find  out  their  goings  on  :  after- 
wards, Lord  lloeliestcr  would  retire  to  the  country, 
and  writ(^  li1)els  on  these  fair  victims,  and,  one  day, 
offered  to  present  tlie  king  with  one  of  liis  lnin])oons; 
hut  being  tipsy,  gave  Charles,  instead,  one  written 
upon  himself. 

At  this  juncture  we  read  with  sorrow  Bishop  Bur- 
net's forcible  description  of  his  career: — 

"  lie  seems  to  have  freed  himself  from  all  impres- 
sions of  virtue  or  reli<fion,  of  honor  or  ijood  nature. 
.  .  .  lie  had  but  one  maxim,  to  which  he  ailliered 
firmly,  that  he  has  to  do  everything,  and  deny  him- 
self in  notliing  that  might  maintain  his  greatness, 
lie  was  unhappily  made  for  drunkenness,  for  he  had 
drunk  all  his  friends  dead,  and  was  able  to  subdue  two 
or  three  sets  of  drunkards  one  after  another;  so  it 
scarce  ever  appeared  that  he  Avas  disordered  after  the 
greatest  drinking:  an  hour  or  two  of  sleep  carried  all 


IIG  LA  TRTSTE  IIEETTIERE. 

off  so  entirely,  that  no  sign  of  them  remained.  .  .  . 
This  had  a  terrible  conclusion." 

Like  many  other  men,  Rochester  might  have  been 
saved  by  being  kept  far  from  the  scene  of  temptation. 
Whilst  he  remained  in  the  country  he  was  tolerably 
sober,  perhaps  steady.  AVlien  he  approached  Brent- 
ford on  his  route  to  London,  his  old  propensities  came 
upon   him. 

Wlien  scarcely  out  of  his  boyhoo<l  he  carried  off  a 
young  heiress,  Elizabeth  Mallett,  whom  De  Gram- 
mnnt  calls  La  trlstc  heritiere :  and  triste,  indeed,  she 
naturally  was.  Possessed  of  a  fortune  of  X2500  a 
year,  this  young  lady  was  marked  out  by  Charles  II. 
as  a  victim  for  the  profligate  Rochester.  But  the 
reckless  young  wit  chose  to  take  his  own  Avay  of 
managing  the  matter.  One  night,  after  supping  at 
Whitehall  with  Miss  Stuart,  the  young  Elizabeth  was 
returning  home  with  her  grandfather.  Lord  Ilaly,  when 
tlieir  coach  was  suddenly  stopped  near  Charing  Cross 
by  a  number  of  bravos,  l)oth  on  horseback  and  on  foot 
— the  "Roaring  Boys  and  ^lohawks,"  who  were  not 
extinct  even  in  Addison's  time.  They  lifted  the 
affrighted  girl  out  of  tlie  carriage,  and  placed  her  in 
one  which  had  six  horses;  they  then  set  off  f)r  LTx- 
bridge,  and  were  overtaken  ;  but  the  outrage  ended  in 
marriage,  and  Elizabeth  became  the  unhappy,  neglected 
Countess  of  Rocliester.  Yet  she  loved  him — perhaps 
in  ignorance  of  all  that  was  going  on  whilst  alie  stayed 
-with  her  foiir  cliildren  iit  home. 


ELIZABETH,   LUL'.NTESS  OF    KOClIESTEi:.       117 

"  ir,"  she  writes  to  liim,  "  I  could  have  been  troubleil 
at  anytbin<^,  when  I  had  the  haj)i>ines.s  of  receiving  a 
letlci-  I'll  (111  voii,  I  should  he  so,  l)ecause  you  did  not 
name  a  time  when  I  mi^^ht  hoj)e  to  see  you,  the  uncer- 
tainty of  which  very  much  alllicts  me.  .  .  .  Lay  your 
commands  upon  me  what  I  am  to  do,  and  though  it  be 
to  forget  my  children,  and  the  long  hope  I  have  lived 
in  of  seeing  you,  yet  w  ill  I  endeavor  to  obey  you  ;  or 
in  the  memory  only  torment  myself,  without  giving 
you  the  trouble  of  putting  you  in  mind  that  there 
lives  a  creature  as 

"Your  faithful,  humble  servant." 

And  he,  in  reply :  "  I  Avent  aAvay  (to  Rochester) 
like  a  rascal,  Avithout  taking  leave,  dear  Avife.  It  is 
an  unpolished  Avay  of  proceeding,  Avhich  a  modest  man 
ought  to  be  ashamed  of.  I  have  left  you  a  prey  to 
your  own  imaginations  amongst  my  relations,  the  Avorst 
of  damnations.  But  there  will  come  an  hour  of  deliver- 
ance, till  Avhen,  may  my  mother  be  merciful  unto  you  I 
So  I  commit  you  to  Avliat  1  shall  ensue,  Avoman  to 
Avoman,  Avife  to  mother,  in  hopes  of  a  future  appear- 
ance in  glory.   .   .   . 

"  Pray  Avrite  as  often  as  you  have  leisure,  to  your 

"  Rochester." 


To  his  son  he  writes:  "You  are  noAV  groAvn  big 
cnou'di  to  be  a  man,  if  vou  can  be  wise  enougli  ;  and 
the  way  to  be  truly  wise  is  to  serve  God,  learn  your 


lis  KETKIBUTION   AND  REFORMATION. 

book,  and  observe  the  instructions  of  your  parents 
first,  and  next  your  tutor,  to  whom  I  luive  entirely 
resigned  you  for  this  seven  years  ;  and  according  as 
you  employ  that  time,  you  are  to  be  happy  or  un- 
happy for  ever.  I  have  so  good  an  opinion  of  you, 
that  I  am  glad  to  think  you  will  never  deceive  me. 
Dear  child,  learn  your  book  and  be  obedient,  and  you 
Avill  see  what  a  father  I  shall  be  to  you.  You  shall 
want  no  pleasure  while  you  are  good,  and  that  you  may 
be  good  are  my  constant  prayers." 

Lord  Rochester  had  not  attained  the  age  of  thirty, 
when  he  was  mercifully  awakened  to  a  sense  of  his 
guilt  here,  his  peril  hereafter.  It  seemed  to  many 
that  his  very  nature  was  so  warped  that  penitence  in 
its  true  sense  could  never  come  to  him  ;  but  the  mercy 
of  God  is  unfathomable  ;  lie  judges  not  as  man  judges  ; 
lie  forgives,  as  man  knows  not  how  to  forgive. 

"(kjd,  our  kind  Master,  merciful  as  just, 
KuDwini;-  our  frame,  remembers  man  is  dust: 
lie  marks  the  dawn  of  every  virtuous  aim, 
And  fans  the  smoking  flax    into  a  liame; 
lie  hears  the  language  of  a  silent  tear, 
And  sighs  are  incense  from  a  heart  sincere." 

And  the  reformation  of  Rochester  is  a  confirmation 
of  the  doctrine  of  a  s])eci;d  Prcivideiice,  ;is  well  as  of 
that  of  ;i.  retribution,  even   in    t!iis  life. 

Tlie  r('tril)ii(ioii  cumo  in  the  loiiii  ol'  an  carlv  but 
certain  decay  ;  of  a  siiOci-iii^-  so  stern,  so  coinpose(|  (»f 
mental  and  bodilv  tiiiirnisli,  that   nevcf  \v;is  man  called 


CON  VERSION.  Ill) 

to  repentance  by  a  voice  so  distinct  as  Rochester.  The 
reformation  was  sent  llnoiiLili  tlir  instrumentality  of 
one  who  had  hci-n  a  sinner  like  himself,  \\\\<>  had 
sinned  ivith  him;  an  unl'ortiuiate  lady,  who,  in  her 
last  hours,  had  been  visited,  reclaimed,  consoled  by 
]>ishop  Burnet.  Of  this.  Lord  llochcstcr  had  heard, 
llr  was  then,  to  all  appearances,  recovering  from  his 
last  sickness.  lie  sent  for  Burnet,  who  devoted  to  him 
one  evening  every  week  of  that  solemn  winter  w  hen  the 
soul  of  the  penitent  sought  reconciliation  and  peace. 

The  conversion  Avas  not  instantaneous ;  it  was  gradual, 
penetrating,  effective,  sincere.  Those  wdio  wish  to 
gratify  curiosity  concerning  the  death-bed  of  one  who 
had  so  notoriously  sinned,  will  read  Burnet's  account 
of  Rochester's  illness  and  death  with  deep  interest ; 
and  nothing  is  so  interesting  as  a  death-bed.  Those 
who  delight  in  works  of  nervous  thought,  and  elevated 
sentiments,  will  read  it  too,  and  arise  from  the  perusal 
gratified.  Those,  however,  who  are  true,  contrite 
Christians  will  go  still  farther;  they  will  own  that 
few  works  so  intensely  touch  the  holiest  and  highest 
feelings ;  few  so  absorb  the  heart  ;  few  so  greatly 
show  the  vanity  of  life;  the  unspeakable  value  of 
})urifying  faith.  "It  is  a  book  whieh  the  critic," 
says  Dr.  .bilmsoii,  "may  read  foi'  its  elegance,  the 
pliilosojilu'r  for  its  arguments,  the  saint  for  its  piety." 

Whilst  deeplv  lamenting  his  own  sins.  Lord  IJoclies- 
tcr  Iiccanie  anxious  to  redeem  his  ioinier  associates 
lidiii    ihi'irs. 


120  EXHORTATION   TO  MR.   FANSIIAWE. 

"When  Wilmot,  Earl  of  Rochester,"  '  Avrites  Wil- 
liam Thomas,  in  a  manuscript  preserved  in  the  Brit- 
ish INIuseum,  "•  lay  on  his  tleath-bed,  Mr.  Fanshawe 
came  to  visit  him,  with  an  intention  to  stay  about  a 
week  with  him.  Mr.  Fanshawe,  sitting  by  the  bed- 
side, perceived  his  lordship  praying  to  God,  through 
Jesus  Christ,  and  ac(|uainted  Dr.  RadclifFe,  Avho  at- 
tended my  Lord  Rochester  in  this  illness  and  was 
then  in  the  house,  Avith  Avhat  he  had  heard,  and  told 
him  that  my  lord  Avas  certainly  delirious,  for  to  his 
knowledge,  he  said,  he  believed  neither  in  God  nor  in 
Jesus  Christ.  The  doctor,  who  had  often  heard  him 
pray  in  the  same  manner,  proposed  to  Mr.  Fanshawe 
to  go  up  to  his  lordship  to  be  further  satisfied  touching 
this  affair.  When  they  came  to  liis  room  the  doctor 
told  my  lord  what  jNIr.  Fanshawe  said,  upon  which  his 
lordship  addressed  himself  to  j\Ir.  Fanshawe  to  this 
effect :  '  Sir,  it  is  true,  you  and  I  have  been  very 
bad  and  ]»r()fane  together,  and  then  I  was  of  the 
opinion  you  mention.  But  now  I  am  quite  of  another 
mind,  and  happy  am  I  that  I  am  so.  I  am  very  sen- 
sible how  miserable  I  was  whilst  of  another  opinion. 
Sir,  you  may  assure  yourself  that  tliere  is  a  Judge  and 
a  future  state;'  and  so  entered  into  a  very  handsome 
discourse  concerning  the  hist  judgment,  future  state, 
&c.,  and  C()iirlude(l  willi  a  serious   and  ])athetic  exlior- 

'  Mr.  William  Tluniias,  tlio  writer  of  lliis  slatcniciit,  luard  it 
from  Dr.  RadcliHe  at  tlic  talilc  (.f  Sjicakcr  llarii-y  (aftcrwanL^^ 
Earl  of  Oxford),  ](itli  .Jiiiic,   17U2. 


LEAL  X    WlTllolT    WIT.  J  21 

tation  tt)  Mr.  Faiisliawe  to  enter  into  another  cour.se 
(»f  life;  addini^  that  ho  (Mr.  F.)  knew  liim  to  l)e  hi.s 
friend;  that  he  neveiwas  more  so  than  at  thi.stinie; 
and  '  Sir,'  said  he,  '  to  use  a  Scripture  expression,  I 
am  not  mad,  hut  sj)eak  the  words  of  truth  and  soher- 
ne.ss.'  Upon  this  Mr.  Fansliawe  trend)led,  and  went 
inniiediately  albot  to  Woodstock,  and  tlierc'  hired  a 
horse  to  Cxford,  and  thence  took  coac  h  to  London." 

There  were  otlier  butterflies  in  that  gay  court ; 
beaux  witliout  wit ;  remorseless  rakes,  incapable  of 
one  noble  thought  or  high  j)ursuit ;  and  amongst  the 
most  foolish  and  fashionable  of  these  was  Henry 
Jermyn,  Lord  Dover.  As  the  nephew  of  Ilem-y 
Jermyn,  Lord  St.  Albans,  this  young  simpleton  was 
ushered  into  a  court  Hie  with  the  most  favorable 
auspices.  Jermyn  street  (built  in  1007)  recalls  to  us 
the  residence  of  Lord  St.  Albans,  the  supposed  hus- 
band of  Henrietta  Maria.  It  was  also  the  centre  of 
fashion  when  Henry  Jermyn  the  younger  was  launched 
into  its  unholy  sphere.  Near  Eagle  Passage  lived  at 
that  time  La  Lelle  Stuart,  Duchess  of  Richmond ; 
next  door  to  her  Henry  Savile,  Rochester's  friend. 
'J'he  locality  has  since  been  purified  hj  worthier  asso- 
ciations :  Sir  Isaac  Newt(tn  lived  for  a  time  in  Jer- 
myn   street,  and    (irny    h)dged   there. 

It  was,  however,  in  De  Granniioiit's  time,  the  scene 
of  all  tlie  various  gallantries  which  were  going  on. 
Henrv  Jermvn  was  supported  by  the  wealth  of  liis 
uncle,  that    unrle    who,   whilst    Charles    11.    was   starv- 


122  LITTLE  JERMYN. 

ing  at  Brussels,  liad  kept  a  lavish  table  in  Paris : 
little  Jermyn,  as  the  younger  Jermyn  was  called, 
owed  much  indeed  to  his  fortune,  which  had  pro- 
cured him  great  eclat  at  the  Dutch  court,  llis  head 
was  large ;  his  features  small ;  his  legs  short ;  his 
physiognomy  was  not  positively  disagreeable,  but  he 
was  affected  and  trifling,  and  his  Avit  consisted  in  ex- 
pressions learnt  by  rote,  which  supplied  him  either 
with  raillery  or  with  compliments. 

This  petty,  inferior  being  had  attracted  the  regard 
of  the  Princess  Royal — afterwards  Princess  of  Orange 
— the  daufrhter  of  Charles  I.  Then  the  Countess  of 
Castlemaine — afterwards  Duchess  of  Cleveland — be- 
came infatuated  with  him ;  he  captivated  also  the 
lovely  Mrs.  Hyde,  a  languishing  beauty,  whom  Sir 
Peter  Lely  has  depicted  in  all  her  sleepy  attractions, 
witli  lier  ringlets  filling;  liiihtlv  over  her  snowy  fore- 
head  and  down  to  her  slioulders.  This  lady  was,  at 
the  time  when  Jermyn  came  to  England,  recently 
married  to  the  son  of  the  great  Clarendon.  She  fell 
desperately  in  love  with  this  unworthy  being ;  but, 
happily  for  her  peace,  he  preferr<'d  the  honor  (or  dis- 
honor) of  being  the  favorite  of  Lady  Castlemaine,  and 
Mrs.  Hyde  escaped  tlie  disgrace  she,  perhaps,  merited. 

De  Grammont  appears  absolutely  to  liave  bated  Jei-- 
myu  :  not  because  be  was  iuim<»r;ib  iiiipcrtiiieiit,  iiiid 
conteinptibb'.  but  bccaiis<'  it  \v;is  .Icniiyii  s  l)();ist  lli;it 
no  woman,  g(»o(l  oi'  b.-ub  (-(luld  resist  liiiii.  \('l,  in  re- 
sjiect  to  tlieif  iiii})riiici]tk'd  life,  Jermyn  ;md  Dc  (nam- 


AN    1N(()MI'AKAI;LK    ni'.MTV.  \2'P, 

iiioiil  liail  iniicli  ill  cniiiinuii.  The  Clicvalicr  was  at  this 
tiiiu"  an  jnliiiircr  of  the  Inolish  hcauty,  Jane  Middh-tun  ; 
one  of  the  h)vclic.st  women  of  a  eouvt  \vliere  it  was  im- 
possible to  turn  without  seeing  loveliness. 

^Irs.  Middleton  was  the  daughter  of  Sir  Roger  Need- 
ham  ;  and  she  has  been  described,  even  by  the  grave 
Evelyn,  as  a  "famous,  and,  indeed,  incompara])le  beau- 
ty." A  co([uette,  slie  was,  however,  tlie  frieml  of 
intellectual  men  ;  and  it  \vas  i)robably  at  the  house  of 
St.  Evremond  that  the  Count  first  saw  her.  Her  figure 
was  good,  she  was  fair  and  delicate ;  and  she  had  so 
great  a  desire,  Count  Hamilton  relates,  to  "appear 
magnificently,  that  she  was  ambitious  to  vie  with  those 
of  the  greatest  fortunes,  though  unable  to  support  the 
expense." 

Letters  and  presents  now  flcAV  about.  Perfumed 
gloves,  pocket  looking-glasses,  elegant  boxes,  apricot 
paste,  essences,  and  other  small  Avares  arrived  Aveekly 
from  Paris;  English  jewelry  still  had  the  preference, 
and  was  liberally  bestowed ;  yet  Mrs.  Middleton,  af- 
fected and  somewhat  precise,  accepted  the  gifts,  but  did 
not  seem  to  encourage  the  giver. 

The  Count  do  Grammont,  pi(iued,  was  beginning  to 
turn  his  attention  to  ^Nliss  Warmestrc,  one  of  the  (queen's 
maids  of  honor,  a  lively  brunette,  and  a  contrast  to  the 
languid  Mrs.  Middleton;  when,  hap[)ily  for  him,  a. 
beauty  appeared  on  the  scene,  and  attracted  him.  l)y 
hiirher  ipialities  than  mere  hioks,  to  a  real,  fervent, 
and  honorable  attachment. 


124  ANTHONY  HAMILTON. 

Amongst  the  few  respected  families  of  that  period 
■was  that  of  Sir  George  Hamilton,  the  fourth  son  of 
James,  Earl  of  Ahercorn,  and  of  Mary,  granddaughter 
of  Walter,  eleventh  Earl  of  Ormond.  Sir  George  had 
distino-uished  himself  during  the  Civil  Wars:  on  the 
death  of  Charles  I.  he  had  retired  to  France,  but  re- 
turned, after  the  Restoration,  to  London,  with  a  large 
family,  all  intelligent  and  beautiful. 

From  their  relationship  to  the  Ormond  family,  the 
Ilamiltons  were  soon  installed  in  the  first  circles  of 
fisliion.  The  Duke  of  Ormond's  sons  had  been  in  ex- 
ile Avith  the  king ;  they  now  added  to  the  lustre  of  the 
court  after  his  return.  The  Earl  of  Arran,  the  second, 
was  a  beau  of  the  true  Cavalier  order  ;  clever  at  games, 
more  especially  at  tennis,  the  king's  favorite  diversion; 
he  touched  the  oiuitar  well ;  and  made  love  ad  UbitiDn. 
Lord  Ossory,  his  elder  brother,  had  less  vivacity  but 
more  intellect,  and  possessed  a  liberal,  honest  nature, 
and  an  heroic  character. 

All  the  good  qualities  of  these  two  young  noblemen 
seem  to  have  been  united  in  Anthony  Hamilton,  of 
whom  De  Grammont  gives  the  following  character: — 
"  The  elder  of  the  Ilamiltons,  their  cousin,  was  the 
man  who,  of  all  the  court,  dressed  best ;  he  was  well 
made  in  his  person,  and  possessed  those  happy  talents 
whicli  lead  l(t  fi)rtiine,  and  procure  success  in  love:  he 
was  a  most  assiduous  courtier,  ]iad  tlie  most  lively  Avit, 
the  most  polished  manners,  and  tbe  most  punctual 
attention    to  his   master  imaginable  :    no  piTsuii  dancetl 


DK  r;RAM:\[oxT's  i'.io(;i;ArFip:R.  125 

bettor,  nor  \v:is  :iiiv  one  n  iiinro  fjOTicnil  lover — :i  morit 
of  some  :icc()init  in  ;i  cniirt  ciilirclv  devoted  to  love  and 
•gallantry.  It  is  not  at  all  siii-])rising  that,  witli  tlicse 
(jiialities,  he  succeeded  iny  Lord  Falmouth  in  the  king's 
i'avor." 

The  fascinating  person  thus  described  was  born  in 
Irchuid  :  he  had  already  experienced  some  vicissitudes, 
Avhieh  were  renewed  at  the  Revolution  of  1688,  when 
he  tied  to  France — the  country  in  wliieli  ho  had  spent 
his  youth — and  died  at  St.  Germains,  in  1720,  aged 
seventy-four.  His  poetry  and  his  fairy  tales  are  for- 
gotten ;  but  his  "  Memoirs  of  the  Count  de  Grammont" 
is  a  work  which  combines  the  vivacity  of  a  French 
writer  with  the  truth  of  an  English  historian. 

Ormond  Yard,  St.  James's  Square,  was  the  Lomlon 
residence  of  the  Duke  of  Ormond :  the  garden  wall  of 
Ormond  House  took  up  the  greater  [)art  of  York  Street: 
the  Hamilton  family  liad  a  commodious  house  in  the 
same  courtly  neighborhood ;  and  the  cousins  mingled 
continually.  Here  persons  of  the  greatest  distinction 
constantly  met;  and  here  the  "Chevalier  de  Gram- 
mont," as  he  was  still  called,  was  received  in  a  manner 
suitable  to  his  rank  and  style  ;  and  soon  regretted  that 
he  had  passed  so  much  time  in  other  places;  for,  after 
he  once  knew  the  charming  Ilamiltons,  he  wished  for 
no  other  friends. 

There  were  three  courts  at  that  time  in  the  capital ; 
that  at  Whitehall,  in  the  king's  apartments  ;  that  in 
the  (jueen's,  in  tlio  same  palace;  and  that  of  Henrietta 


126  THE  THREE  COURTS. 

Maria,  tlic  Queen-Mother,  as  she  was  styled,  at  Somer- 
set House.  Cliarles's  wos  pre-eminent  in  immorality, 
jind  in  the  daily  outrage  of  all  decency  ;  that  of  tlie 
unworthy  widow  of  Charles  I.  was  just  bordering  on 
impropriety  ;  that  of  Katherine  of  Braganza  was  still 
decorous,  though  not  irreproachable.  Pepj^s,  in  his 
Diary,  has  this  passage : — "  Visited  Mrs.  Ferrers,  and 
stayed  talking  with  her  a  good  while,  there  being  a 
little,  proud,  ugly,  talking  lady  there,  that  Avas  much 
crying  up  the  queene-mother's  court  at  Somerset  House, 
above  our  queen's ;  there  being  before  her  no  allowance 
of  laughing  and  mirth  that  is  at  the  other's ;  and,  in- 
deed, it  is  ol)ser\'ed  that  the  greatest  court  now-a-days 
is  there.  Thence  to  Whitehall,  where  I  carried  my 
wife  to  see  the  queene  in  her  presence-chamber ;  and 
the  maydes  of  honor  nnd  the  young  Duke  of  Mon- 
mouth,  playing  at  cards." 

Queen  Katherine,  notwithstanding  that  the  first 
words  she  Avas  ever  known  to  say  in  English  were 
"I'o?^  lie!''  was  one  of  the  gentlest  of  beings.  Pepys 
describes  her  as  having  a  modest,  innocent  look,  among 
all  the  demireps  with  whom  she  was  forced  to  associate. 
Again  we  turn  to  Pepys,  an  anecdote  of  whose  is  cha- 
racteristic of  poor  Katherine's  submissive,  uncomplain- 
ing nature : — 

"  With  Creed,  to  the  King's  Head  ordimiry  ;  .  .  . 
and  a  pretty  gentleman  in  our  company,  Avho  confirms 
my  Tiady  Castlemaine's  being  gone  from  coui't,  but 
knows    not   the  reason  ;    ho  told  us  of  one   wijie  the 


"LA    r.KLLi:    HAMILTON."  127 

quocno,  a  Til  tic  wliilc  :\'^<k  ilnl  give  her  when  slie  (■■.\mv. 
in  and  fniiiHl  the  (luecne  under  the  dresser's  hands,  :ind 
liad  Iteen  so  h)ng.  '  I  wonder  jour  Majesty,'  says  she, 
'  eaii  have  tlic  patience  to  sit  so  hjng  a-dressing  ?' — '  I 
have  so  nnich  reason  to  use  patience,'  says  the  ([ueene, 
'that  I  can  verv  well  bear  with  it.'  " 

It  was  in  the  court  of"  this  injured  queen  that  De 
Craiiiniont  went  one  evening  to  Mrs.  jNIiihlleton's 
house:  tliere  was  a  ball  that  night,  and  amongst  the 
dancers  was  the  loveliest  creature  that  De  Grammont 
had  ever  seen.  Ilis  eyes  were  riveted  on  this  fiiir 
form ;  he  had  heard,  but  never  till  then  seen  her, 
whom  all  the  world  consented  to  call  "  La  Belle  Hamil- 
ton," and  his  heart  instantly  echoed  the  expressitm. 
Fi'oui  this  time  he  forgot  Mrs.  Middleton,  and  despised 
Miss  Warmestre  :  "he  found,"  lie  said,  that  he  ''hail 
seen  nothing  at  court  till  this  instant." 

"Miss  Hamilton,"  lie  himself  tells  us,  "was  at  the 
happy  age  when  the  charms  of  the  fair  sex  begin  to 
bloom  ;  she  had  the  finest  shape,  the  loveliest  neck, 
and  most  beautiful  arms  in  the  world  ;  she  was  majestic 
and  gi'accfiil  in  all  her  movements;  and  she  Avas  the 
original  after  which  all  tlic  ladies  copied  in  their  taste 
and  air  of  dress.  Her  forehead  was  open,  white,  and 
smooth  ;  her  hair  was  Avell  set,  and  fell  with  ease  into 
that  natural  order  which  it  is  so  difficult  to  imitate. 
Her  complexion  was  possessed  of  a  certain  freshness, 
not  to  be  equalled  by  borrowed  colors ;  her  e3^es  Avere 
not  lai-ge,  but  they  were  lively,  and  cajiable  of  express- 


128  AN  INTELLECTUAL  BEAUTY. 

ing  whatever  slie  pleased."  '  So  far  for  her  person  ;  hut 
De  Grammont  was,  it  seems,  weary  of  external  charms  : 
it  was  the  intellectual  superiority  that  riveted  his  feel- 
ings, whilst  his  connoisseurship  in  beauty  was  satisfied 
that  he  had  never  yet  seen  any  one  so  perfect. 

"  Iler  mind,"  he  says,  "  was  a  proper  companion  for 
such  a  form  :  she  did  not  endeavor  to  shine  in  conversa- 
tion by  those  sprightly  sallies  which  only  puzzle,  and 
Avith  still  greater  care  she  avoided  that  affected  solemnity 
in  her  discourses  which  produces  stupidity  ;  but,  without 
any  eagerness  to  talk,  she  just  said  what  she  ought,  and 
no  more.  She  had  an  admirable  discernment  in  dis- 
tinguishing between  solid  and  fiilse  wit ;  and  far  from 
making  an  ostentatious  display  of  her  abilities,  she 
was  reserved,  though  very  just  in  her  decisions.  Her 
sentiments  were  always  noble,  and  even  lofty  to  the 
highest  extent,  wlien  there  was  occasion ;  nevertheless, 
she  was  less  prepossessed  with  her  own  merit  than  is 
usually  the  case  with  those  who  have  so  much.  Formed 
as  we  have  described,  she  could  not  fliil  of  commanding 
love ;  but  so  fiir  was  she  from  courting  it,  that  she  was 
scrupulously  nice  with  respect  to  those  whose  merit 
might  entitle  them  to  form  any  pretensions  to  her." 

Born  in  1641,  Elizabeth — for  such  was  the  Chris- 
tian name  of  this  lovely  and  admirable  woman — was 
scarcely  in  her  twentieth  year  when  she  first  appeared 
at  Whitehall.  Sir  Peter  Lely  was  at  that  time  paint- 
ing the  Beauties  of  the  Court,  and  had  done  full  justice 
*  See  De  (iraniinont's  Memoirs. 


sill  riTKK  j.Ki.vs  i'oi;'n:\iT.  i-2!» 

to  the  iiitcllcctii.il  ami  y<'t  innocont  face  tliat  rivotccl 
Dc  Grainnioiit.  He  liad  dciiictcd  her  with  her  \iich 
dark  hair,  of  wliich  a  tcmhil  oi-  two  fell  on  her  ivory 
foreliead,  aihirned  at  tlio  back  with  lart^e  pearls,  under 
Avhich  a  i^auze-like  texture  was  gathered  up,  falling 
over  the  fair  shoulders  like  a  veil :  a  full  corsage,  hound 
by  a  light  hand  either  of  rihlton  or  of  gold  lace,  con- 
fining, with  a  large  jewel  or  button,  the  sleeve  on  the 
shoulder,  disguised  somewhat  the  exquisite  shape.  A 
frill  of  fine  canil)ric  setoff,  whilst  in  whiteness  it  scarce 
rivalled,  the  shoulder  and  neck. 

The  features  of  this  exquisite  face  are  accurately 
described  by  De  Grammont,  as  Sir  Peter  has  painted 
them.  "  The  mouth  does  not  smile,  but  seems  ready 
to  break  out  into  a  smile.  Nothing  is  sleepy,  but 
everything  is  soft,  sweet,  and  innocent  in  that  ftice  so 
beautiful  and  so  beloved." 

While  the  colors  were  fresh  on  Lely's  palettes,  James 
Duke  of  York,  that  profligate  who  aped  the  saint,  saw 
it,  and  henceforth  paid  his  court  to  the  original,  but 
was  repelled  .with  fearless  hauteur.  The  dissolute 
nobles  of  the  court  followed  his  example,  even  to  the 
"  lady-killer  "  Jermyn,  l)ut  in  vain.  Unhappily  for 
La  Belle  Hamilton,  she  became  sensible  to  the  attrac- 
tions of  De  Grammont,  whom  she  eventually  married. 

Miss  Hamilton,  intelligent  as  she  was,  lent  herself 

to  the  fashion  of  the  day,  and  delighted  in  practical 

jokes  and  tricks.     At  the  splendid  masquerade  given 

by  the  (jueen  she  continued  to  plague  her  cousin,  Lady 

Vol.  I.— 'J 


130  INFATUATION. 

Muskerry  ;  to  confuse  and  expose  a  stupid  court  beau- 
ty, a  Miss  Blaque ;  and  at  the  same  time  to  produce 
on  the  Count  de  Grammont  a  still  more  powerful  effect 
than  even  her  charms  had  done.  Her  success  in  hoax- 
ing— which  we  should  noAv  think  both  perilous  and 
indelicate — seems  to  have  only  riveted  the  chain,  which 
was  drawn  around  him  more  strongly. 

His  friend,  or  rather  his  foe,  St.  Evremond,  tried  in 
vain  to  discourage  the  Chevalier  from  his  new  passion. 
The  former  tutor  was,  it  appeared,  jealous  of  its  influ- 
ence, and  hurt  that  De  Grammont  was  now  seldom  at 
his  house. 

De  Grammont's  answer  to  his  remonstrances  was 
very  characteristic.  "  My  poor  philosopher,"  he  cried, 
"you  understand  Latin  well — you  can  make  good 
verses — you  are  acquainted  with  the  nature  of  the 
stars  in  the  firmament — but  you  are  wholly  ignorant 
of  the  luminaries  in  the  terrestrial  globe." 

He  then  announced  his  intention  to  persevere,  not- 
Avithstanding  all  the  obstacles  which  attached  to  the 
suit  of  a  man  without  either  fortune  or  character,  who 
had  been  exiled  from  his  own  country,  and  whose 
chief  mode  of  livelihood  was  dependent  on  the  gaming- 
table. 

One  can  scarcely  read  of  the  infatuation  of  La  Belle 
Hamilton  without  a  sigh.  During  a  period  of  six 
years  their  marriage  wais  in  contemplation  only  ;  and 
Do  Grammont  seems  to  have  trifled  inexcusably  with 
the  feelings  of  this  once  gay  and  ever-lovely  girl.     It 


TiiK  iioiisKiioLi)  i)i:rrv  oi'  wiirii;iiAi,[>.    i;;i 

was  not  for  want  (ifinc-ins  llmt  De  ( Jraniniont  tlius  de- 
layed tlio  f'liHilliiicnt  ol"  liis  cii^iii^cineiit.  ('liarles  II., 
iiic.xciisnlilv  l:i\i,~li.  'SAVf  liiiii  a  pension  of  1 . ")()()  Jaco- 
buses:  it  was  to  be  paid  t<»  liim  until  he  should  l)e  re- 
stored to  tlie  favor  of  bis  own  kinj^.  The  fact  was  that 
Dc  <Jraniinont  contributed  to  the  pleasure  of  the  couit, 
ami  pleasure  was  the  household  deity  of  WliitcJiall. 
Sometimes,  in  those  days  of  careless  gayety,  there  were 
promenades  in  Spring  Gardens,  or  tlie  Mall ;  sometimes 
the  court  beauties  sallied  forth  on  liorseback  ;  at  other 
times  there  were  shows  on  the  i-iver,  which  then  washed 
the  very  foundations  of  Whitehall.  There  in  the  sum- 
mer evenings,  Avhen  it  was  too  hot  and  dusty  to  walk, 
old  Tlianies  might  be  seen  covered  with  little  boats, 
tilled  with  court  and  city  beauties,  attending  the  I'oyal 
barges ;  collations,  music,  and  fireworks  completed 
the  scene,  an<l  De  Grannnont  always  contrived  some 
surprise — some  gallant  show  :  once  a  concert  of  voctil 
and  instrumental  music,  which  be  had  privately  brought 
from  Paris,  struck  up  unexpectedly  :  another  time  a 
collation  brought  from  the  gay  capital  surpassed  that 
supplied  by  the  king.  Then  the  Chevalier,  finding 
that  coaches  with  glass  windows,  lately  introduced,  dis- 
pleased the  ladies,  because  their  charms  Avere  only 
partially  seen  in  them,  sent  for  the  most  elegant  and 
superb  calecJie  overseen  :  it  came  after  a  month's  jour- 
ney, and  was  presented  by  De  Grammont  to  the  king. 
It  was  a  royal  present  in  price,  for  it  had  cost  two  thou- 
sand livres.     The  famous  dispute  between  Lady  Cas- 


132  WHO  SHALL  HAVE  THE  CALECHE? 

tlcraaine  and  Miss  Stuart,  afterwards  Dueliess  of 
Richmond,  arose  about  this  caleche.  Tlie  Queen  and 
the  Duchess  of  York  appeared  hrst  in  it  in  Hyde  Park, 
Avhich  had  then  recently  been  fenced  in  with  brick. 
Lady  Castlemaine  thought  that  the  caleche  showed  off 
a  fine  fiirure  better  than  the  coach  ;  Miss  Stuart  was  of 
the  same  opinion.  Both  these  grown-up  bal)ies  wished 
to  have  the  coach  on  the  same  day,  but  Miss  Stuart 
prevailed. 

The  Queen  condescended  to  hiugh  at  the  quarrels 
of  these  two  foolisli  Avomen,  nnd  complimented  the 
Chevalier  do  Grammont  on  his  present.  "  But  how 
is  it,"  she  asked,  "that  you  do  not  even  keep  a  foot- 
man, and  that  one  of  the  common  runners  in  the  street 
lights  you  home  with  a  link  ?" 

"Madame,"  he  answered,  "the  Chevalier  de  Gram- 
mont hates  pomp:  my  link-boy  is  faithful  and  brave." 
Then  he  told  the  (^ueen  that  he  saAV  she  was  unac- 
quainted with  the  nation  of  link-boys,  and  related 
how  that  he  had,  at  one  time,  had  one  hundred  and 
sixty  around  liis  chair  at  night,  and  people  had  asked 
"  whose  funeral  it  was  ?  As  for  the  parade  of  coaches 
and  footmen,"  he  added,  "I  despise  it.  I  have  some- 
times had  five  or  six  valets-de-chambre,  without  a  sin- 
gle footman  in  livery  except  my  chaplain." 

"  How  !"  cried  tlie  Queen,  laughing,  "a  chaplain  in 
livery?   surely  he  Avas  not  a  priest." 

"  Pardon,  Madame,  a  priest,  and  the  best  dancer  in 
the  world  of  the  Biscayan  gig." 


A  ciiAri.Aix  IN  i.i\i;kv.  i:;:; 

"Clun-nlicv,"  said  the  kiii;,^,  '' UW  us  the  liistoi'v  of 
your  chaplain    Poussatiii.  " 

Then  \)('  (iraiiiiiiont  ivlatc-il  how,  when  he  was  with 
the  ^reat  Coiitle,  alter  the  eaiiipai^ni  of  Catah)iiia,  he 
hail  seen  anionic;  a  company  ot"  Catalans,  a  priest  in  a 
little  black  jacket,  skipi)ini,f  and  frisking:  how  Conde 
■was  charmed,  and  how  they  recognized  in  him  a 
Frenchman,  and  how  he  offered  himself  to  De  Uraui- 
mont  for  his  chaplain.  De  Grammont  had  not  nuich 
need,  he  said,  for  a  chaplain  in  his  house,  but  he  took 
the  priest,  who  had  afterwards  the  honor  of  dancing 
before  Anne  of  Austria,  in  Paris. 

Suitor  after  suitor  interfered  Avith  De  Grannnijnt's 
at  last  honorable  address  to  La  Belle  Hamilton.  At 
leniith  an  incident  occurred  wliich  had  very  nearly 
scparatcil  them  for  ever,  riiililjert  de  Grammont  was 
recalleil  to  Paris  bv  Louis  XIV.  He  forgot,  French- 
m;iii-likc,  nil  liis  engagements  to  Miss  Hamilton,  an<l 
hmried  oil".  He  had  reached  Dover,  -when  her  two 
brothers  I'oile  up  after  him.  "Chevalier  de  Gram- 
mont," they  said,  "have  you  forgotten  nothing  in 
London  ?" 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  answered,  "I  forgot  to 
marry  your  sister."  It  is  said  that  this  story  sug- 
gested to  ]\Ioliere  the  idea  of  La  MaruKje  force. 
Thev   Avere.   however,   m;irricd. 

In  lUtlH,  La  Ih'Hc  il.iiniiton,  after  giving  birth  to 
a  <'hild.  went  to  rcsiilc  in  l''r;ince.  Chai'les  11.,  who 
thoMii'ht    she    would    p;i-s    lor    ;i    hamlsome   womiin    in 


134         AT  THE  FRENCH  COURT. 

France,    recommended    lier    to    his    sister,    Henrietta, 
Duchess  of  Orleans,  and  begged  her  to  be  kind  to  lier. 

Henceforth  the  Chevalier  de  Grammont  and  his 
wife  figured  at  Versailles,  where  the  Countess  de 
Grammont  was  appointed  Dame  da  Palais.  Her 
career  was  less  brilliant  than  in  England.  The 
French  ladies  deemed  her  haughty  and  old,  and  even 
termed  her  une  Anglaise  insupportable. 

She  had  certainly  too  much  virtue,  and  perhaps  too 
mucli  beauty  still,  for  the  Parisian  ladies  of  fashion  at 
that  period  to  admire  her. 

She  endeavored,  in  vain,  to  reclaim  her  libertine 
husband,  and  to  call  him  to  a  sense  of  his  situation 
when  he  was  on  his  death-bed.  Louis  XIV.  sent  the 
Marquis  de  Dangeau  to  convert  him,  and  to  talk  to 
him  on  a  subject  little  thought  of  by  De  Grammont 
— tlie  world  to  come.  After  the  jNIarquis  had  been 
talking  for  some  time,  De  Grannnoiit  turned  to  his 
wife  and  said,  ''  Countess,  if  you  don't  look  to  it, 
Dangeau  will  juggle  you  out  of  my  conversion."  St. 
Evremond  said  he  would  gladly  die  to  go  off  with  so 
successful  a  Imn-mot, 

He  became,  however,  in  time,  serious,  if  not  devout 
or  penitent.  Ninon  de  I'Enclos  having  written  to  St. 
Evremond  that  the  Count  de  Grammont  li;id  not  only- 
recovered,  but  had  ])ecome  devout,  St.  Evrciuoinl  an- 
swered lier   in   these  words  : — 

"T  bnvc  Ic.inu'd  with  ;i  great  deal  of  jilcasurc  that 
the    ('ouiil    de    (iraminoiil    has    rccovcrcMl    bis    io)'iiici' 


DE  GliAMMOXT'S    LAST    HOURS.  IM;" 


lie 


allli,  and  ac((uirc'<l  a  new  (k'votion.  llilliiTUj  I 
have  bc't'ii  c-()iitentc(l  with  being  a  j)laiii,  honest  nuin  ; 
liiit  I  must  do  soniethinir  more:  and  I  onlv -wait  lor 
your  example  to  become  a  devotee.  You  live  in  a 
country  uliere  people  have  wonderful  advantages  of 
saving  their  souls:  there,  vice  is  almost  as  opposite  to 
the  mode  as  virtue ;  sinning  passes  for  ill-breeding, 
and  shocks  decencv  and  good-manners,  as  much  as  re- 
ligion.  Formerly  it  was  enough  to  be  wicked,  now  one 
must  be  a  scoundrel  withal  to  be  damned  in  France." 

A  report  having  been  circulated  that  De  Grammont 
was  dead,  St.  Evremond  expressed  deep  regret.  The 
report  was  contradicted  by  Ninon  de  I'Enclos.  The 
Chevalier  was  then  eighty-six  years  of  age ;  "  never- 
theless, he  was,"  Ninon  says,  "so  young,  that  I  think 
him  as  lively  as  when  he  hated  sick  people,  and  loved 
them  after  they  had  recovered  their  health  ;"  a  trait  very 
descriptive  of  a  man  Avhose  good-nature  was  always  on 
the  surface,  but  whose  selfishness  was  deep  as  that  of 
most  wits  and  beaux,  who  are  spoiled  by  the  world, 
and  who,  in  return,  distrust  and  deceive  the  spoilers. 
With  this  long  life  of  eighty -six  years,  endowed  as  De 
Grammont  was  with  elasticity  of  spirits,  good  fortune, 
considerable  talent,  an  excellent  position,  a  wit  that 
never  ceased  to  flow  in  a  clear  current ; — with  all  these 
advantages,  what  might  he  not  have  hvvn  to  society, 
had  his  energy  been  well  applied,  his  wit  innocent, 
iiis  talents  em])l()yed  worthily,  and  his  heart  as  sure 
to  staiiil   iiiusti'r  as   his   manners '!" 


BEAU    FIELDING. 

"Let  us  be  wise,  boys,  berc's  a  foul  coming,"  said 
a  sensible  man,  when  he  saw  Beau  Nash's  splendid  car- 
riage draw  up  to  the  door.  Is  a  beau  a  fool  ?  Is  a 
sharper  a  fool  ?  Was  Bonaparte  a  fool  ?  If  you  rc[)ly 
"no"  to  the  last  two  (juestions,  you  must  give  the 
same  answer  to  the  first  A  beau  is  a  fox,  but  not  a 
fool — a  very  clever  fellow,  who,  knowing  the  Aveakness 
of  his  brothers  and  sisters  in  the  world,  takes  advantage 
of  it  to  make  himself  a  fame  and  a  fortune.  Nash,  the 
son  of  a  glass-merchant — Brummell,  the  hopeful  of  a 
small  shoj)keeper — became  the  intimates  of  princes, 
dukes,  and  fashionables ;  were  petty  kings  of  Vanity 
Fair,  and  were  honored  by  their  subjects.  In  tlie 
kingdom  of  the  blind  the  one-eyed  man  is  king ;  in 
the  realm  of  folly,  the  sharper  is  a  monarch.  The 
only  proviso  is,  that  the  cheat  come  not  within  the 
jurisdiction  of  the  law.  Such  a  cheat  is  the  beau  or 
dandy,  or  fine  gentleman,  who  imposes  on  his  public  by 
his  clothes  and  appearance.  Bond-fide  monarchs  have 
done  as  much  :  lioiiis  XIV.  avom  hims(df  tlu;  titk'  of  Ijo 
(irand  Mona>r((uc  by  ids  nijinncrs,  bis  dress,  :iiid  bis 
vanity.  Fielding,  Nasli,  and  I5nimiiicll  did  iiolliiiig 
more.      It    is    not    a   questi(»ii    wIiciIkt  siu-li   roads   to 

136 


tf-olam-1  Uoftm  (Braiii  ^inaiug. 


^«25:=— «aK    "•^r ''^_^— ^ —  jT^ffjij,*.*— -     • 


ON  WITS  AND  BEAUX.  1:57 

eminence   l)c  contemptible  ov  not,   ])iit   wiictluT  tlieir 
adoption    in    one  station   of   lilr   he   more  so  than   in 
anotlici-.      Was   Brunnnell    a    wliit    more   contemptible 
than   '•Wales"?     Or  is  John  Thomas,  the  joride  and 
glory    of    the    "  Domestics'     Frcc-and-Easy,"     wliose 
whiskers,  figure,  lace,  and  manner  are  all  superb,  one 
atom  more  ridiculous  than  your  recognized  beau  ?     T 
trow  not.     What  right,  then,  has  your  beau  to  a  j)lace 
among  wits  ?     I  fancy  Chesterfield  would  be  much  dis- 
gusted at  seeing  his  name  side  by  side  with  that  of 
Nash  in  tliis  vobmie;  yet  Chesterndd  had  no  objection, 
when  at   Hath,  to  do  homage  to  the  king  of  that  city, 
and   may  have  prided  himself  on  exchanging  pinches 
from   diamond-set /snuff-boxes  with   that  superb  gold- 
laced  dignity   in   tlie   I'umji-room.     Certainly,   people 
who  thought  little  of  IMiilip  Dormer  Stanhope,  thought 
a  great  deal  of  the  glass-merchant's  re})robatc  son  when 
he  was  in   power,   and  s)i1)mitted  without  a  murmur  to 
his  imprrtinences.     The  fact  is,  that  the  beaux  and  the 
wits  are    more    intinuitely   connected   than   the   latter 
would  care  to  own  :   the  wits  have  all  been,  or  aspired 
to  be,  beaux,  and  beaux   have  had  tlieir  fiiir  share  of 
wit;  both  lived  for  the  same  purpose — to  shine  in  soci- 
ety ;  both  used  the  same  means — coats  and  bon-mots. 
The  only  distinction  is,  that  the  garments  of  the  licaux 
were  better,  and   their  sayings  not  so  good  as  those  of 
the  wits;  whih'  the  conversation  of  the  wits  was  better, 
;iiid  iheir  apparel  not  so  sti'iking  a>  ihat  of  the  beaux. 
So,  my  Lord  ( 'hesterlield.  who  prided  voiir.-elf  .jiiite  as 


138  FIELDING'S  ANCE8TRY. 

much  on  being  a  fine  gentleman  as  on  being  a  fine  wit, 
you  cannot  complain  at  your  proximity  to  Mr.  Nash 
and  others  who  were  fine  gentlemen,  and  would  have 
been  fine  wits  if  they  could. 

Robert  Fielding  was,  perhaps,  the  least  of  the  beaux, 
but  then,  to  make  up  for  this,  he  belonged  to  a  noble 
family  :  he  married  a  duchess,  and,  what  is  more,  he 
beat  her.  Surely  in  the  kingdom  of  fools  such  a  man 
is  not  to  be  despised.  You  may  be  sure  he  did  not 
think  he  was,  for  was  he  not  made  the  subject  of  two 
papers  in  "The  Tatler"?  and  what  more  could  such 
a  man  desire  ? 

His  father  was  a  Suffolk  squire,  claiming  relation- 
ship with  the  Earls  of  Denbigh,  and  therefore  with  the 
Ilapsburgs,  from  whom  the  Beau  and  the  Emperors  of 
Austria  had  the  common  honor  of  being  descended. 
Perhaps  neither  of  them  had  sufficient  sense  to  be  proud 
of  the  greatest  intellectual  ornament  of  their  race,  the 
author  of  "  Tom  Jones  ;"  but  as  our  hero  was  dead  be- 
fore the  humorist  was  born,  it  is  not  fair  to  conjecture 
Avhat  he  might  have  thought  on  the  subject. 

It  does  not  appear  that  very  much  is  known  of  this 
great  gem  of  the  race  of  Hapsburg.  lie  had  the  mis- 
fortune to  be  very  handsome,  and  the  folly  to  tliink 
that  his  face  Avould  be  his  fi)rtune  :  it  certainly  stood 
him  in  good  stead  at  times,  but  it  .'dso  brought  him  into 
a  larnenta])le  dih'iiiina. 

Tlis  fiitlicr  was  not  ric]i,  and  sent  liis  son  to  tlic  Tem- 
ple  to  study  laws  wliich   he  was  only  fitlrd   to   break. 


SCOTLAND    YAKI).  IM) 

The  young  Adonis  luid  sense  enougli  to  see  tliut  destiny 
did  not  beekon  liiui  to  fUnie  in  the  ijloom  of"  ti  niustv 
law-court,  and  removed  a  little  further  up  to  the  Thames, 
and  tlic  more  fashionable  region  of  Scotland  Yard. 
Here,  where  now  Z  -JOO  repairs  to  rejiort  his  investiga- 
tions to  a  Commissioner,  the  young  dandies  of  Charles 
11. 's  day  strutted  in  gay  doublets,  swore  hasty  oaths 
of  choice  invention,  smoked  the  true  Tobago  from 
huge  pipebowls,  and  ogled  the  fair  but  not  too  ba:^hful 
dames  who  passed  to  and  fro  in  their  chariots.  The 
court  took  its  name  from  the  royalties  of  Scotland,  who, 
when  they  visited  the  South,  were  there  lodged,  as  be- 
ing conveniently  near  to  AVhitehall  Palace.  It  is  odd 
enough  that  the  three  architects,  Inigo  Jones, Vanbrugh, 
and  Wren,  all  lived  in  tliis  yard. 

It  was  not  to  be  supposed  that  a  man  who  could  so 
Avell  appreciate  a  handsome  face  and  well-cut  doublet 
as  Charles  II.  should  long  overlook  his  neighbor,  ]Mr. 
Ilobert  Fielding,  and  in  due  course  the  Beau,  Avho  had 
no  other  diploma,  found  himself  in  the  honorable  posi- 
tion of  a  justice  of  the  peace. 

The  emoluments  of  this  office  enabled  Orlando,  as 
"  TIio  Tatler  "  calls  him,  to  shine  forth  in  :ill  his  glory. 
AVilh  an  envial)le  indifference  to  the  future,  he  launched 
out  into  an  expenditure  which  alone  would  have  ncule 
him  ])opular  in  ;i  countiy  where  the  heaviest  purse 
makes  the  greatest  gentleman.  llis  lactjueys  were 
arrayed  in  tlie  briLilitcsl  ydlow  coats  with  black  sashes 
— the  llapsburg  colors.      lie  had  a  carriage,  of  course, 


140  ORLANDO  OF  "THE  TATLER." 

but,  like  Sheridan's,  it  was  hired,  though  dr:l^vn  l)y  his 
own  horses.  This  curriao-e  was  deserihed  as  beinir 
shaped  like  a  sea-shell ;  and  "  The  Tatler  "  ealls  it  *•'  an 
open  tumbril  of  less  size  than  ordinary,  to  show  the 
largeness  of  his  limbs  and  the  grandeur  of  his  person - 
ao-e  to  the  best  adv'anta2;e."  The  said  limbs  were 
Fielding's  especial  pride :  he  gloried  in  the  strength 
of  his  leg  and  arm  ;  and  when  he  walked  down  the 
street,  he  was  followed  l>y  an  admiring  crowd,  whom 
he  treated  with  as  nuich  haughtiness  as  if  he  had  been 
the  eui])eror  himself,  instead  of  his  cousin  five  hundred 
times  removed.      He  used  his  strength  to  iiood  or  bad 

CD  ~ 

purposes,  and  Avas  a  redoubted  fighter  and  bully,  though 
good-natured  withal.  In  the  Mall,  as  he  strutted,  he 
Avas  the  cynosure  of  all  female  eyes.  His  dress  had  all 
the  elegance  of  which  the  graceful  costume  of  that 
period  was  capal)le,  though  Fielding  did  not,  like 
IJrummell,  understand  the  delicacy  of  a  (juiet  but 
studied  style.  Those  were  simpler,  somewhat  more 
honest  days.  It  was  not  necessary  for  a  man  to  cloak 
his  vices,  nor  be  ashamed  of  his  cloak.  The  beau 
then-a-day  openly  and  arrogantly  gloried  in  the  grand- 
cui'  of  his  attire,  and  l)ragging  was  a  part  of  his  cha- 
racter. Fielding  Avas  made  by  his  tailor;  lli-unuuell 
made  his  tailor:  the  only  point  in  couiukui  to  both  was 
that  neither  of  them  paid  the  tailor's  Itiil. 

'^riie  fine  gentleman,  under  tlu;  StuaiMs,  was  fine  only 
in  his  lace  and  his  velvet  doubh-l  :  his  language  was 
coarse,  his  manners  coarser,  his   vices  the  coarsest  of 


"A   (OM['LETE  GENTLEMAN."  141 

:ill.  No  wotidci-  wlicii  tlic  kiiiLT  liiniself  cnuM  fret  so 
(Iniiik  witli  Scillcy  ;iiiil  Iliickliiirst  as  to  lie  iin:il)lG  to 
give  an  aiiiliciicc  a]»|»()iii(('(l  Cor;  ami  ulicn  the  cliicf 
run  of  }iis  two  conn)anioiis  was  to  divest  tliomselvos  of 
all  llic  lialiiliinonts  wliieli  civilization  lias  had  tlic  ill 
taste  to  make  necessary,  and  in  that  state  run  about 
the  streets. 

"  Orlando  "  wore  the  finest  ruffles  and  the  heaviest 
sword;  his  wig  was  combed  to  perfection;  and  in  his 
pocket  he  carried  a  little  comb  Avitli  Avhich  to  arrange  it 
from  time  to  time,  even  as  the  dandy  of  to-day  pulls  out 
his  whiskers  or  curls  his  moustache.  Such  a  man  could 
not  be  passed  over;  and  accordingly  he  numbered  half 
the  officers  and  orallants  of  the  town  among  his  intimates. 
Tic  drank,  swore,  and  swagfjered,  and  the  snobs  of  the 
day  proclaimed  him  a  "  complete  gentleman." 

His  impudence,  ho-wever,  was  not  always  tolerated. 
Tn  the  playhouses  of  the  day,  it  was  the  fashion  for 
some  of  the  spectators  to  stand  upon  the  stage,  and 
the  places  in  that  position  were  chiefly  occupied  by 
young  gallants.  The  ladies  came  most  in  masques: 
but  this  did  not  prevent  Master  Fielding  from  making 
his  remarks  very  freely,  and  in  no  very  refined  strain 
to  them.  The  modest  damsels,  whom  Pope  has  de- 
scribed, 

"The  fair  sat  pnutinc;  at  tlic  eourtior's  play, 
And  not  a  mask  went  unimproved  away : 
Tlie  modest  fan  was  lifttd  up  no  more, 
And  viri:;ins  smiled  at  wiiat   lluy  IiIiisIumI  liofore," 


142  IN  DEBT. 

were  not  too  coy  to  ])e  pleased  witli  the  fops'  attentions, 
and  replied  in  like  strain.  Tlio  players  were  unheeded ; 
the  audience  laughed  at  the  improvised  and  natural  Avit, 
when  carefully  prepared  dialogues  fiiled  to  fix  their 
attention.  The  actors  "were  disgusted,  and,  in  spite 
of  Master  Fielding's  herculean  strength,  kicked  him 
oif  the  stage,  with  a  warning  not  to  come  again. 

The  rule  of  a  beau  is  expensive  to  keep  up ;  and 
our  justice  of  the  peace  could  not,  like  Nash,  double 
his  income  by  gaming.  He  soon  got  deeply  into  debt, 
as  every  celebrated  dresser  has  done.  The  old  story, 
not  new  c\'en  in  those  days,  was  enacted,  and  the  bril- 
liant Adonis  had  to  keep  Avatch  and  ward  against 
tailors  and  bailiffs.  On  one  occasion  they  had  nearly 
caught  him  ;  but  his  legs  being  lengthy,  he  gave  them 
fair  sport  as  far  as  St.  James's  Palace,  where  the  officers 
on  guard  rushed  out  to  save  their  pet,  and  drove  off  the 
myrmidons  of  the  law  at  the  point  of  the  sword. 

But  debts  do  not  pay  themselves,  nor  die,  and 
Orlando  with  all  his  strength  and  prowess  could  not 
long  keep  off  the  constable.  Evil  days  gloomed  at 
no  very  great  distance  before  him,  and  the  fear  of  a 
sponging-house  and  debtors'  prison  compelled  him  to 
turn  his  handsome  person  to  account.  Had  he  not 
broken  a  hundred  hearts  already  ?  had  he  not  charmed 
a  thousand  pairs  of  beaming  eyes?  Avas  there  not  one 
owner  of  one  pair  who  was  also  possessed  of  a  pretty 
fortune?  Who  should  have  the  honor  of  bein"  the 
wife  of  such  an  Adonis?  who,    indeed,   but  she   who 


ADONIS    I\   Slv\i;(  ir   ol'    A    WIFE.  1  l.', 

coiilil  ji;iy  Iiii:Ii«'sf  for  it;  and  wlut  could  p;iy  \\\\]i 
a  Iiandsoine  incline  Imt  a  wcll-ddwcrcd  widow?  A 
Aviilow  it  must  Im' — a  widow  it  sluudd  lie  Noltle  iii- 
dc'C'd  was  the  sciitiiuciit  wliicli  inspired  this  ixreat  man 
to  sacrifice  liimsclf  on  tlic  altar  of"  Ilynien  for  tlic  gf)od 
of  liis  creditors.  Ye  young  men  in  llie  (luards,  ulio 
do  tliis  kind  of  tliinif  every  day — that  is,  every  (hiv 
that  you  can  meet  witli  a  wi(h)W  with  the  ])roper  ([uali- 
ficati(ms — take  wanting  by  the  lanientahlc  history 
of  Mr.  Robert  Fiehling,  and  never  trust  to  "third 
parties." 

A  Avi(h)W  was  found,  fit,  fair,  and  f )rt_y — and  oh  ! — 
charm  greatei'  far  than  all  the  rest — W'ith  a  fortune  of 
sixty  thousand  j^nmds  ;  this  was  a  ^Mrs.  Deleau,  who 
liv<Ml  at  Whaddoii  in  Surrey,  and  at  Copthall-court  in 
London.  Notiiing  could  l)e  more  charming  ;  and  the 
only  obstacle  was  the  absence  of  all  ac({uaintancc  be- 
tween the  ])arties — for,  of  course,  it  was  impossible  for 
any  wi<low,  whatever  her  attractions,  to  be  insensible 
to  those  of  Rol)ert  Fielding.  Under  these  circum- 
stances, the  Beau  looked  about  for  an  agent,  and 
found  one  in  the  person  of  a  ^Nlrs.  A^illars,  hairdresser 
to  the  widow.  He  offered  this  person  a  handsome 
douceur  in  case  of  success,  and  she  Avas  to  undertake 
that  the  lady  should  meet  the  gentleman  in  the  most 
unpremeditated  manner,  ^'^arious  schemes  were  re- 
sorted to :  with  the  alias,  for  he  was  not  above  an 
alias,  of  Major-Gencral  Villars,  the  Beau  called  at 
the  widow's  country  house,  and  was  permitted  to  see 


144  THE  SHAM   WIDOW. 

the  gardens.  At  a  window  lie  espied  a  lady,  wbom  he 
took  to  be  the  object  of  his  pursuit — bowed  to  her 
majestically,  and  went  away,  persuaded  he  must  have 
made  an  impression.  But,  whether  the  Avidow  was 
wiser  than  the  wearers  of  weeds  have  the  reputation 
of  being,  or  whether  the  agent  had  really  no  power 
in  the  matter,  the  meeting  never  came  on. 

The  hairdresser  naturally  grew  anxious,  the  douceur 
wns  too  good  to  be  lost,  and  as  the  widow  could  not  be 
had,  some  one  must  bo  supplied  in  her  place. 

One  day  while  the  Beau  was  sitting  in  his  splendid 
"night-gown,"  as  the  morning-dress  of  gentlemen  was 
then  called,  two  ladies  were  ushered  into  his  august 
presence.  He  had  been  Avarned  of  this  visit,  and  was 
prepared  to  receive  the  yielding  widow.  The  one,  of 
course,  was  the  hairdresser,  the  other  a  young,  pretty, 
and  api^arcnthj  modest  creature,  who  blushed  much — 
though  with  some  difficulty — at  the  trying  position  in 
which  she  found  herself.  The  Beau,  delighted,  did  his 
best  to  reassure  her.  He  flung  himself  at  her  feet, 
swore,  with  oaths  more  fashionable  than  delicate,  that 
she  was  the  only  woman  he  ever  loved,  and  prevailed 
on  the  widow  so  far  as  to  induce  her  to  "  call  again  to- 
morrow." 

Of  course  she  came,  and  Adonis  was  in  heaven. 
lie  wrote  little  poems  to  her — for,  as  a  gallant,  he 
could  of  course  make  verses — serenaded  her  through 
an  Italian  donna,  invited  her  to  suppers,  at  which  the 
delicacies  of  the  season  were  served  without  regard  to 


WAYS   AM)   MEANS.  Mo 

the  purveyor's  account,  and  to  which,  coy  as  she  was, 
she  consented  to  come,  and  clenched  the  enirajjement 
•with  a  ring,  on  which  was  the  motto,  "  Tibi  Soli." 
Nay,  the  lieau  had  been  educated,  and  had  some 
knowledge  of  "the  tongues,"  so  that  he  added  to 
these  attentions,  the  further  one  of  a  song  or  two 
translated  from  the  Creek.  The  widow  ou^ht  to 
have  been  pleased,  and  was.  One  thing  only  she 
stipulated,  namely,  that  the  marriage  should  be  pri- 
vate, lest  her  relations  should  forbid  the  banns. 

Having  brought  her  so  far,  it  was  not  likely  that 
the  fortune-hunter  would  stick  at  such  a  mere  trifle, 
and  accordingly  an  entertainment  was  got  up  at  the 
Beau's  own  rooms,  a  supper  suital)lc  to  the  rank  and 
wealth  of  tlie  Avidow,  provided  by  some  obligingly 
credulous  tradesman ;  a  priest  found — for,  be  it  pre- 
mised, our  hero  had  changed  so  much  of  his  religion 
as  he  had  to  change  in  the  reign  of  James  II.,  when 
Romanism  was  not  only  fashionable,  but  a  sure  road 
to  fortune — and  the  mutually  satisfied  couple  swore  to 
love,  honor,  and  obey  one  another  till  death  them 
should  part. 

The  next  morning,  however,  the  widow  left  the  gen- 
tleman's lodgings,  on  the  pretext  that  it  was  injudi- 
cious for  her  friends  to  know  of  tlieir  union  at  present, 
and  continued  to  visit  her  s])oso  and  sup  somewhat 
amply  at  his  chambers  from  time  to  time.  We  can 
imagine  the  anxiety  Orlando  now  felt  for  a  cheque- 
book at  tlic  heiress's  bankers,  and  the  many  insinua- 

VOL.   I.  — 10 


146  A  FATAL  INTIMACY. 

tions  he  may  have  delicately  made,  touching  ways  and 
means.  We  can  fancy  the  artful  excuses  with  which 
these  hints  were  put  aside  by  his  attached  wife.  But 
the  dupe  was  still  in  happy  ignorance  of  the  trick 
played  on  him,  and  for  a  time  such  ignorance  was 
bliss.  It  must  have  been  trying  to  him  to  be  called 
on  by  Mrs.  Villars  for  the  promised  douceur,  but  he 
consoled  himself  with  the  pleasures  of  hope. 

Unfortunately,  however,  he  had  formed  the  acquaint- 
ance of  a  woman  of  a  very  different  reputation  to  the 
real  Mrs.  Deleau,  and  the  intimacy  which  ensued  was 
fatal  to  him. 

When  Charles  II.  was  wandering  abroad,  he  was 
joined,  among  others,  by  a  Mr.  and  INIrs.  Palmer. 
The  husband  was  a  staunch  old  Romanist,  Avith  the 
qualities  which  usually  accompanied  that  faith  in  those 
days — little  respect  for  morality,  and  a  good  deal  of 
bigotry.  In  later  days  he  was  one  of  the  victims  sus- 
pected of  the  Titus  Gates  plot,  but  escaped,  and  event- 
ually died  in  Wales,  in  1705,  after  having  been  James 
II. 's  ambassador  to  Rome.  This,  in  a  few  words,  is 
the  history  of  that  Roger  Palmer,  afterwards  Lord 
Castlemaine,  who  by  some  is  said  to  have  sold  his  wife 
— not  at  Smithfield,  but  at  Whitehall — to  his  Majesty 
King  Charles  II.,  for  the  sum  of  one  peerage — an  Irish 
one,  taken  on  consideration  :  by  otliers,  is  ;dleged  to 
have  l)een  so  indignant  with  the  king  as  to  liave  re- 
mained far  some  time  far  from  court ;  and  so  disgusted 
Avith  his  elevation  to  the  peerage  as  scarcely  to  assume 


BAU1]AK.\    VILLIEKS,    LADY   CASTLEMAINE.     147 

his  titlr :  :iiid  tliis  last  is  tlie  most  authenticated  version 
of  the  matter. 

Mrs.  Pahner  behjnged  to  one  of  the  oldest  families 
in  En<ilan(l,  and  traced  her  descent  to  rajran  de  Vil- 
liers,  in  the  days  of  William  Rufus,  and  a  good  deal 
fa  It  her  among  the  nobles  of  Normandy.  She  was  the 
daughter  of"  William,  second  Viscount  Grandison,  and 
rejoiced  in  the  appropriate  name  of  Barbara,  for  she 
could  be  savage  occasionally.  She  was  very  beautiful, 
and  very  wicked,  and  soon  became  Charles's  mistress. 
On  the  Restoration  she  joined  the  king  in  England, 
and  Avlien  the  jtoor  neglected  queen  came  over  was 
foisted  upon  her  as  a  bedchamber-Avoman,  in  spite  of 
all  the  objections  of  that  ill-used  wife.  It  was  neces- 
sary to  this  end  that  she  should  1>e  the  wife  of  a  peer ;  and 
her  husband  accepted  the  title  of  Earl  of  Castlemaine, 
well  knowing  to  what  he  owed  it.  Pepys,  who  admired 
Lady  Castlenuiine  more  than  any  woman  in  England, 
describes  the  husband  and  wife  meeting  at  Whitehall 
with  a  cold  ceremonial  Ijow  :  yet  the  husliand  tvas 
there.  A  quarrel  between  the  two,  strangely  enough 
on  the  score  of  religion,  her  ladyship  insisting  that  her 
child  should  be  christened  by  a  Protestant  clergyman, 
while  his  lordship  insisted  on  the  ceremony  being  per- 
formed by  a  Romish  priest,  brought  about  a  separation, 
and  from  that  time  Lady  Castlemaine,  lodged  in  White- 
hall, began  her  euq)ire  over  the  king  of  England.  That 
man,  "who  never  saiil  a  foolish  thing,  and  never  did 
a  wise  one,"  was  the  slave  of  this  imperious  and  most 


148  QUARRELS  WITH  THE  KING. 

impudent  of  women.  She  forced  him  to  settle  on  her 
an  immense  fortune,  much  of  which  she  squandered  at 
the  basset-table,  often  staking  a  thousand  pounds  at 
a  time,  and  sometimes  losing  fifteen  thousand  pounds 
a-night. 

Nor  did  her  wickedness  end  here.  We  have  some 
pity  for  one,  who,  like  La  Valliere,  could  be  attracted 
by  the  attentions  of  a  handsome,  fascinating  prince : 
we  pity  though  we  bhune.  But  Lady  Castlemaine  was 
vicious  to  the  very  marrow  :  not  content  with  a  king's 
favor,  she  courted  herself  the  young  gallants  of  the 
town.  Quarrels  ensued  between  Charles  and  his  mis- 
tress, in  which  the  latter  invariably  came  off  victorious, 
owing  to  her  indomitable  temper ;  and  the  scenes  re- 
corded by  De  Grammont — when  she  threatened  to  burn 
down  Whitehall,  and  tear  her  children  in  pieces — are 
too  disgraceful  for  insertion.  She  forced  the  reprobate 
monarch  to  consent  to  all  her  extortionate  demands : 
rifled  the  nation's  pockets  as  well  as  his  own ;  and  at 
every  fresh  difference,  forced'  Charles  to  give  her  some 
new  pension.  An  intrigue  with  Jermyn,  discovered 
and  objected  to  by  the  king,  brought  on  a  fresh  and 
more  serious  difference,  which  was  only  patched  up  by 
a  patent  of  the  Duchy  of  Cleveland.  The  Duchess  of 
Cleveland  was  even  worse  than  the  Countess  of  Castle- 
maine. Abandoned  in  time  by  Charles,  and  detested 
by  all  peoi)le  of  any  decent  feeling,  she  consoled  her- 
self for  the  loss  of  a  re;d  king  by  taking  up  with  a 
stage  one.      Hart  and   Goodinnn.  flie  actors,  were  sue- 


THE  DUCIIE.SS  OF  CLEVELAND  IN   LOVE.     149 

ccssivcly  her  cavaliori ;  the  former  had  been  a  captain 
in  the  army  ;  the  latter  a  student  at  Cambridge.  Loth 
were  men  of  the  coarsest  minds  and  most  depraved 
lives.  Goodman  in  after  years  was  so  reduced  that 
finding,  as  Sheridan  advised  his  son  to  do,  a  pair  of 
pistols  handy,  a  horse  saddled,  and  Ilounslow  Heath 
not  a  hundred  miles  distant,  he  took  to  the  pleasant 
and  profitable  pastime  of  which  Dick  Turpin  is  the 
patron  saint.  lie  was  all  but  hanged  for  his  daring 
robberies,  but  unfortunately  not  quite  so.  He  lived 
to  suffer  such  indigence,  that  he  and  another  rascal  had 
but  one  under-garment  between  them,  and  entered  into 
a  compact  that  one  should  lie  in  bed  while  the  other 
Avore  the  article  in  question.  Naturally  enough,  the  two 
fell  out  in  time,  and  tlio  end  of  Goodman — sad  mis- 
nomer— was  worse  than  his  be2:;inninor :  such  was  the 
gallant  wliom  the  imperious  Duchess  of  Cleveland 
vouchsafed   to   honor. 

The  life  of  the  once  beautiful  Barbara  Villiers  grew 
daily  more  and  more  depraved :  at  the  age  of  thirty 
she  retired  to  Paris,  shunned  and  (ysgrace<l.  After 
numerous  intrigues  abroad  and  at  home,  she  put  the 
crowning  point  to  her  follies  by  fiilling  in  love  with 
the  handsome  Fielding,  when  she  hei'self  numbered 
sixty-five  summers. 

Whether  the  Beau  still  thought  of  fortune,  or  whether, 
havinir  once  tried  matrimonv,  he  was  so  enchanted  with 
it  as  to  make  it  his  cacoethes,  does  not  appear:  the 
legend  explains  not  for  what  reason  he  married  the 


150  THE  BEAU'S  SECOND  MARRIAGE. 

antiquated  beauty  only  three  weeks  after  he  had  been 
united  to  the  supposed  widow.  For  a  time  he  wavered 
between  the  tAvo,  but  that  time  was  short :  the  widow 
discovei'ed  his  second  marrriage,  chiimed  him,  and  in 
so  doing  revealed  the  well-kept  secret  that  she  was  not 
a  widow  ;  indeed,  not  even  the  relict  of  John  Delcau, 
Esq.,  of  Whaddon,  but  a  wretched  adventurer  of  the 
name  of  Mary  Wadsworth,  who  had  shared  with  Mrs. 
Villars  the  plunder  of  the  trick.  The  Beau  tried  to 
preserve  his  dignity,  and  throw  over  his  duper,  but  in 
vain.  The  first  wife  reported  the  state  of  aflairs  to  the 
second  ;  and  the  duchess,  who  had  been  shamefully 
treated  by  Master  Fielding,  was  only  too  glad  of  an 
opportunity  to  get  rid  of  him.  She  offered  Mary 
Wadsworth  a  pension  of  XlOO  a  year,  and  a  sum  of 
£200  in  ready  money,  to  prove  the  previous  marriage. 
The  case  came  on,  and  Beau  Fielding  had  the  honor  of 
playing  a  part  in  a  fomous  state  trial. 

With  his  usual  impudence  he  undertook  to  defend 
himself  at  the  Old  Bailey,  and  hatched  up  some  old 
story  to  prove  that  the  first  wife  was  married  at  the 
time  of  their  union  to  one  Brady  ;  but  the  plea  fell  to 
the  ground,  and  the  fine  gentleman  was  sentenced  to  be 
burned  in  the  hand.  His  interest  in  certain  (piarters 
saved  him  this  ignominious  punishment,  which  would, 
doubtless,  have  spoiled  a  limb  of  Avhich  he  was  par- 
ticularly proud.  lie  was  pardoned :  the  real  widow 
jnarried  a  far  more  lionoral)le  gentleman,  in  spite  of 
the  unenviable  notoriety  slie  had  acquired;  the  sham 


THE   LAST   DAYS  OF   FOPS   AND   BKAFX.      lol 

Olio  Avas  somehow  (|uiL'tc(l,  and  the  duchess  died  .some 
four  years  later,  the  mure  peacefully  for  being  rid  of 
her  tyrannical  mate. 

Tlius  ended  a  petty  scandal  of  the  day,  in  Avhich  all 
the  parties  were  so  disreputal)le  that  no  one  could  feel 
any  sympathy  for  a  single  one  of  them.  How  the 
dupe  himself  ended  is  not  known.  The  last  days  of 
fops  and  beaux  are  never  glorious.  Brummell  died  in 
slovenly  penury  ;  Na.sh  in  contempt.  Fielding  lapsed 
into  the  dimmest  obscurity ;  and  as  far  as  evidence  goes, 
there  is  as  little  certainty  about  his  death  as  of  that  of 
the  Wandering  Jew.  Let  us  hope  that  he  is  not  still 
alive:  though  his  friends  seemed  to  have  cared  little 
whether  he  Avere  so  or  not,  to  judge  from  a  couple  of 
verses  WTitten  by  one  of  them: 

"  If  Fieldini?  is  dead, 

And  rests  under  tliis  stone, 
Then  he  is  not  alive, 

You  may  bet  two  to  one. 

"  But  if  he's  alive. 

And  does  not  lie  there — 
Let  him  live  till  he's  hanged, 
For  which  no  man  will  care." 


OF  CERTAIN  CLUBS  AND  CLUB-WITS 
UNDER  ANNE. 

I  SUPPOSE  that,  long  before  the  biiihiing  of  Babel, 
man  discovered  that  he  was  an  associative  animal, 
with  the  universal  motto,  ^'^  L' union  c  est  la  force  ;" 
and  that  association,  to  be  of  any  use,  requires  talk. 
A  history  of  celebrated  associations  from  the  building- 
society  just  mentioned  down  to  the  thousands  which 
are  represented  by  an  office,  a  secretary,  and  a  brass 
plate,  in  the  present  day,  would  give  a  curious  scheme 
of  the  natural  tendencies  of  man  ;  while  the  story  of 
their  failures — and  how  many  have  not  failed,  sooner 
or  later  ! — would  be  a  pretty  moral  lesson  to  your 
anthropolaters  who  Babelize  now-a-days,  and  believe 
there  is  nothing  which  a  company  with  capital  cannot 
achieve.  I  wonder  what  object  there  is,  that  two  men 
can  possibly  agree  in  desiring,  and  which  it  takes  more 
than  one  to  attain,  for  which  an  association  of  some 
kind  has  not  been  formed  at  some  time  or  other,  since 
first  the  swarthy  savage  learned  that  it  Avas  necessary 
to  unite  to  kill  the  lion  Avhich  infested  the  neighbor- 
hood ?  Alack  for  human  nature  !  I  fear  by  far  the 
larger  proportion  of  the  objects  of  associations  would 
be  found  rather  evil  than  good,  and,  certes,  nearly  all 
162 


THE  RAISON   D'ftTIlK  OF  CLUr.-LIFE.         153 

of  them  mit'lit  be  ranged  under  two  heads,  accordiiii; 
as  the  passions  of  hate  or  desire  found  a  common  object 
in  several  hearts.  Gain  on  the  one  hand — destruction 
on  the  other — have  been  the  chief  motives  of  clubbing 
in  all  time. 

A  dcliglitful  exception  is  to  be  found,  though — to 
wit,  in  associations  for  the  purpose  of  talking,  I  do 
not  refer  to  parliaments  and  philosophical  academies, 
but  to  those  companies  which  have  been  formed  for 
the  sole  purpose  of  mutual  entertainment  by  inter- 
chano;e  of  thought. 

Now,  will  any  kind  reader  oblige  me  wath  a  deriva- 
tion of  the  word  "  Club  "  ?  I  doubt  if  it  is  easy  to 
discover.  But  one  thing  is  certain,  whatever  its 
origin,  it  is,  in  its  present  sense,  purely  English  in 
idea  and  in  existence.  Dean  Trench  points  this  out, 
and,  noting  the  fact  that  no  other  nation  (he  might 
have  excepted  the  Chinese)  has  any  word  to  express 
this  kind  of  association,  he  has,  with  very  pardonable 
natural  pride,  but  unpardonably  bad  logic,  inferred 
that  the  English  are  the  most  sociable  people  in  the 
world.  The  contrary  is  true;  nay,  ivas  true,  even  in 
the  days  of  Addison,  Swift,  Steele — even  in  the  days 
of  Johnson,  Walpole,  Selwyn  ;  ay,  at  all  time  since 
we  have  been  a  nation.  The  fact  is,  we  are  not  the 
most  sociable,  but  the  most  associative  race ;  and  the 
establishment  of  clubs  is  a  proof  of  it.  We  cannot, 
and  never  could,  talk  freely,  comfortably,  and  gener- 
ally,  without  a    company   for   talking.      Conversation 


154  THE  ORIGIN  OF  CLUBS. 

has  always  been  with  us  as  much  a  business  as  rail- 
road-making, or  what  not.  It  has  always  demanded 
certain  accessories,  certain  condiments,  certain  stimu- 
lants to  work  it  up  to  the  proper  pitch.  "  We  all 
know  "  we  are  the  cleverest  and  Avittiest  people  under 
the  sun ;  but  then  our  wit  has  been  stereotyped. 
France  has  no  "Joe  Miller;"  for  a  bon-mot  there, 
hoAvever  good,  is  only  appreciated  historically.  Our 
wit  is  printed,  not  spoken  ;  our  best  wits  behind  an 
inkhorn  have  sometimes  been  the  veriest  logs  in 
society.  On  the  Continent  clubs  Avere  not  called 
for,  because  society  itself  Avas  the  arena  of  conver- 
sation. In  this  country,  on  the  other  hand,  a  man 
could  only  chat  wdicn  at  his  ease ;  could  only  be  at 
his  ease  among  those  Avho  agreed  Avith  him  on  the 
main  points  of  religion  and  politics,  and  even  then 
Avanted  the  aid  of  a  bottle  to  make  him  comfortable. 
Our  Avant  of  sociability  was  the  cause  of  our  clubbing, 
and  therefore  the  AA'ord  "club  "  is  purely  English. 

This  Avas  never  so  much  the  case  as  after  the  Restora- 
tion. Religion  and  politics  never  ran  higher  than  when 
a  monarch,  who  is  said  to  have  died  a  papist  because  he 
had  no  religion  at  all  during  his  life,  was  brought  back 
to  supplant  a  furious  puritanical  Protectorate.  Then, 
indeed,  it  Avas  difficult  for  men  of  opposite  parties  to 
meet  without  bickering  ;  and  society  demanded  separate 
meeting-places  for  those  avIio  differed.  The  origin  of 
clubs  in  this  country  is  to  be  traced  to  tAvo  causes — 
the  vehemence  of  religious  and  political  partianship, 


THE  ESTABLISHMENT  OF  COFFEE-HOUSES.     lo5 

and  the  cstablisliincnt  of  coffee-bouses.  These  cer- 
tainly ^avc  the  first  idea  of  clubberj.  The  taverns 
which  had  preceded  them  liad  given  the  English  a 
zest  for  ))ii1)lic  life  in  a  small  way.  "The  Mermaid" 
■was,  virtually,  a  club  of  wits  long  before  the  first  real 
clul)  was  opened,  and,  like  the  clubs  of  the  eighteenth 
century,  it  li;id  its  presiding  geniuses  in  Shakespeare 
and  Rare  J>en. 

The  coffee-houses  introduced  somewhat  more  refine- 
ment and  less  exclusiveness.  The  oldest  of  these  was 
the  "  Grecian."  "One  Constantine,  a  Grecian,"  ad- 
vertised in  "The  Intelligencer"  of  January  23d, 
WCA-h,  that  "the  right  coffee  bery  or  chocolate," 
might  be  had  of  him  "as  cheap  and  as  good  as  is 
anywhere  to  be  had  for  money,"  and  soon  after  be- 
gan to  sell  the  said  "coffee  bery"  in  small  cups  at 
his  own  establishment  in  Devereux  Court,  Strand. 
Some  tAvo  years  later  we  have  news  of  "Will's,"  the 
most  famous,  perhaps,  of  the  coffee-houses.  Here 
Dryden  held  forth  with  pedantic  vanity  :  an<l  here  was 
laid  the  first  germ  of  that  critical  acumen  which  has 
since  become  a  distinsuishinQ;  feature  in  Enfrlish  litera- 
ture.  Then,  in  the  City,  one  GarraAvay,  of  Exchange 
Alley,  first  sold  "  tea  in  leaf  and  drink,  made  according 
to  the  directions  of  the  most  knowing;,  and  travellers 
into  those  eastern  countries;"  and  thus  established  the 
well-known  "  Garraway's,"  whither,  in  Defoe's  day, 
"foreign  banquiers  "  and  even  ministers  resorted,  to 
drink  the  said  beverage.     "  Ivobin's,"  "Jonathan's," 


156  THE  OCTOBER  CLUB. 

and  many  another,  were  all  opened  about  tliis  time, 
and  the  rage  for  coffee-house  life  became  general 
throughout  the    country. 

In  these  places  the  company  was  of  course  of  all 
classes  and  colors ;  but,  as  the  conversation  was  general, 
there  was  naturally  at  first  a  good  deal  of  squabbling, 
till,  for  the  sake  of  peace  and  comfort,  a  man  chose 
his  place  of  resort  according  to  his  political  principles : 
and  a  little  later  there  were  regular  Whig  and  Tory 
coffee-houses.  Thus,  in  Anne's  day,  "  The  Cocoa- 
nut,"  in  St.  James's  Street,  was  reserved  for  Jacobites, 
while  none  but  Whigs  frequented  "  The  St.  James's." 
Still,  there  Avas  not  sufficient  exclusiveness ;  and  as 
early  as  in  Charles  II. 's  reign  men  of  peculiar  opinions 
began  to  appropriate  certain  coffee-houses  at  certain 
hours,  and  to  exclude  from  them  all  but  approved 
members.     Hence  the  origin  of  clubs. 

The  October  Club  was  one  of  the  earliest,  being 
composed  of  some  hundred  and  fifty  rank  Tories, 
chiefly  country  members  of  Parliament.  They  met 
at  the  "Bell,"  in  King  Street,  Westminster,  that 
street  in  Avhich  Spenser  starved,  and  Drydcn's  brother 
kept  a  grocer's  shop.  A  portrait  of  Queen  Anne,  by 
Dahl,  hung  in  the  club-room.  This  and  the  Kit-kat, 
the  great  Whig  club,  Avere  chiefly  reserved  for  politics ; 
but  the  fiishion  of  clubbing  having  once  come  in,  it  was 
soon  followed  by  people  of  all  fancies.  No  reader  of 
"The  Spectator"  can  fail  to  remember  the  ridicule  to 
which  this  was  turned   by  descriptions  of  imaginary 


THE  liEEF-STEAK   CLUB.  l.")7 

clubs  for  which  the  (qualifications  were  absurd,  ami 
of  which  the  business,  on  meeting,  was  preposterous 
nonsense  of  some  kind.  The  idea  of  such  fraternities 
as  the  Club  of  Fat  Men,  the  Ugly  Club,  the  Sheromp 
Club,  the  Everlasting  Club,  the  Sighing  Club,  the 
Amorous  Club,  and  others,  could  only  have  been 
suggested  by  real  clubs  almost  as  ridiculous.  The 
names,  too,  were  almost  as  fantastical  as  those  of  the 
taverns  in  the  previous  century,  which  counted  "  The 
Devil,"  and  ''  The  Heaven  and  Hell,"  among  their 
numbers.  Many  derived  their  titles  from  the  standing 
dishes  preferred  at  supper,  the  Beef-steak  and  the  Kit- 
kat  (a  sort  of  mutton-pie),  for  instance. 

The  Beef-steak  Club,  still  in  existence,  was  one  of 
the  most  famous  established  in  Anne's  reign.  It  had 
at  that  time  less  of  a  political  than  a  jovial  character. 
Nothing  but  tliat  excellent  British  fare,  from  which  it 
took  its  name,  was,  at  first,  served  at  the  supper-table. 
It  was  an  assemblage  of  wits  of  every  station,  and 
very  jovial  were  they  supposed  to  be  when  the  juicy 
dish  had  been  discussed.  Early  in  the  century,  Est- 
court,  the  actor,  was  made  provider  to  this  club,  and 
wore  a  golden  gridiron  as  a  badge  of  office,  and  is 
thus  alluded  to  in  Dr.  King's  "Art  of  Cookery" 
(1709):— 

"He  tliat  of  lionor,  wit,  ;inil  mirth  iiartakes, 
May  he  a  (it  companion  o'er  hecf-stakes ; 
I  lis  name  may  he  to  fiitnre  times  enrolled 
In  Estconrt's  hook,  wliose  gridiron's  framed  of  gold." 


158  ESTCOURT,   THE  ACTOR. 

Estcoiirt  was  one  of  the  best  mimics  of  the  day,  and 
a  keen  satirist  to  boot ;  in  fact  he  seems  to  have  owed 
much  of  his  success  on  the  stage  to  his  power  of  imita- 
tion, for  while  his  own  manner  was  inferior,  he  could 
at  pleasure  copy  exactly  that  of  any  celebrated  actor. 
He  ivould  be  a  player.  At  fifteen  he  ran  away  from 
home,  and,  joining  a  strolling  company,  acted  Roxana 
in  woman's  clothes :  his  friends  pursued  him,  and, 
chanu-iuif  his  dress  for  that  of  a  o;irl  of  the  time,  he 
tried  to  escape  them,  but  in  vain.  The  histrionic 
youth  was  captured,  and  bound  apprentice  in  London 
town;  the  "seven  long  years"  of  Avhicli  did  not  cure 
him  of  the  itch  for  acting.  But  he  was  too  good  a 
wit  for  the  stage,  and  amused  himself,  though  not 
always  his  audience,  by  interspersing  his  part  with  his 
own  remarks.  The  great  took  him  by  the  hand,  and 
old  Marlborough  especially  patronized  him  :  he  wrote 
a  burles([ue  of  the  Italian  0})eras  then  beginning  to  be 
in  vogue ;  and  died  in  1712-13.  Estcourt  was  nut 
the  only  actor  belonging  to  the  Beef-steak,  nor  even 
tlie  only  one  who  had  concealed  his  sex  under  emer- 
gency ;  Peg  WoiUngton,  who  had  made  as  good  a,  boy 
as  lie  had  done  a  girl,  was  afterwards  a  member  of 
this  chil). 

In  later  years  the  beef-steak  was  cdoked  in  a  room 
at  the  top  of  Covent  Garden  'J'heatre,  and  counted 
many  a  celebrated  wit  among  tliose  who  sat  around  its 
cheery  dish.     Wilkes  the  blasphemer,  Churchill,  and 


ITS  MODERN   REPRESENTATTVE.  159 

Lord  Sandwich,  were  all  members  of  it  at  the  .same 
time.  Of  tlie  hist,  "\Valj)ole  gives  us  information  in 
17G3  at  the  time  of  Wilkes's  duel  with  Martin  in 
Hyde  Park.  He  ti-11-  us  that  at  the  Beef-steak  Club 
Lord  Sandwich  talked  so  profusely,  "that  he  drove 
harle([uins  out  of  the  com})any."  To  the  honor  of  the 
club  be  it  added,  that  his  hjrdship  was  driven  out  after 
the  harleijuins,  and  finally  e.xpelled :  it  is  sincerely 
to  be  hoped  that  Wilkes  was  sent  after  his  lordship. 
This  club  is  now  represented  by  one  held  behind  the 
Lyceum,  with  the  thoroughly  British  motto,  "Beef 
and  Liberty:""  the  name  was  happily  chosen  and 
therefore  imitated.  Li  the  reign  of  George  II.  we 
meet  with  a  "Rump-steak,  or  Liberty  Club;"  and 
somehow  steaks  and  liberty  seem  to  be  the  two  ideas 
most  intimately  associated  in  the  Britannic  mind. 
Can  any  one  explain  it? 

Other  cliil)S  there  were  under  Anne, — political,  crit- 
ical, and  hilarious — but  the  palm  is  undoubtedly  car- 
ried olf  by  the  glorious  Kit-kat. 

It  is  not  every  eating-house  that  is  immortalized  by 
a  ro{)e,  though  Tennyson  has  sung  "  The  Cock  "  with 
its  ''plump  head-waiter,"  who.  l)y  the  way,  was  might- 
ily offended  by  the  Laureate's  verses — or  pretended  to 

be  so — and  thought  it  "a  great  liberty  of  Mr. , 

]Mr.  ,  what  is  his  name?  to  put  respectable  pri- 
vate characters  into  his  ])ooks."  Pope,  or  some  say 
Ai-buthnot,  explained  the  etymology  of  this  club's 
extraordinary  title : — 


160  THE  KIT-KAT  CLUB. 

"Whence  deatliless  Kit-kat  took  its  name, 
Few  critics  can  unriddle : 
Some  say  from  pastrycook  it  came, 
And  some  from  Cat  and  Fiddle. 

"From  no  trim  beaux  its  name  it  boasts, 
Grey  statesmen  or  green  wits; 
But  from  the  pell-mell  pack  of  toasts 
Of  old  cats  and  young  kits." 

Probably  enough  the  title  was  hit  on  at  hap-hazard, 
and  retained  because  it  was  singular,  but  as  it  has 
given  a  poet  a  theme,  and  a  painter  a  name  for  pic- 
tures of  a  peculiar  size,  its  etymology  has  become 
important.  Some  say  that  the  pastrycook  in  Shire 
Lane,  at  whose  house  it  was  held,  was  named  Christo- 
pher Katt.  Some  one  or  other  was  certainly  cele- 
brated for  the  manufacture  of  that  forgotten  delicacy, 
a  mutton-pie,  which  acquired  the  name  of  a  Kit-kat. 

"  A  Kit-kat  is  a  supper  for  a  lord," 

says  a  comedy  of  1700,  and  certes  it  afforded  at  this 
club  evening  nourishment  for  many  a  celebrated  noble 
profligate  of  the  day.  The  supposed  sign  of  the  Cat 
and  Fiddle  (Kitt),  gave  another  solution,  but  after  all. 
Pope's  may  be  satisfactorily  received. 

The  Kit-kat  was,  par  excelkfice,  the  Whig  Club  of 
Queen  Anne's  time :  it  was  established  at  the  begin- 
ning of  the  eighteenth  century,  and  was  tlien  composed 
of  thirty-nine  members,  among  wboin  were  the  Dukes 
of  Marll)orougl),  Dcvonsbire,  (Iraltoii,  Kiclmumd,  and 


THE  ROMAN'CE  OF  THE   BOWL.  101 

Somerset.  In  later  days  it  numbered  the  greatest  Avits 
of  the  age,  of  whom  anon. 

This  club  was  celebrated  more  tlian  any  for  its 
toasts. 

Now,  if  men  must  drink — and  sure  the  vine  was 
given  us  for  use,  I  do  not  say  for  abuse — they  had  better 
make  it  an  occasion  of  friendly  intercourse;  nothing 
can  be  more  degraded  than  tlie  solitary  sanctimonious 
toping  in  which  certain  of  our  northern  brethren  are 
known  to  indulge.  Tliey  had  better  give  to  tlie 
quaffing  of  that  rich  gift,  sent  to  be  a  medicine  for  tlie 
mind,  to  raise  us  above  the  perpetual  contemplation  of 
worldly  ills,  as  much  of  romance  and  elegance  as  possi- 
ble. It  is  the  opener  of  the  heart,  the  awakener  of 
nobler  feelings  of  generosity  and  love,  the  banisher  of 
all  that  is  narrow,  and  sordid,  and  selfish  ;  the  herald 
of  all  that  is  exalted  in  man.  No  wonder  that  the 
Greeks  made  a  god  of  Bacchus,  that  the  Hindu  wor- 
shipped the  mellow  Soma,  and  that  there  has  been 
scarce  a  poet  who  has  not  sung  its  praise.  There  was 
some  beauty  in  the  feasts  of  the  Greeks,  when  the  gob- 
let was  really  wreathed  with  flowers ;  and  even  the 
German  student,  dirty  and  drunken  as  he  may  be,  re- 
moves half  the  stain  from  his  orgies  with  the  rich  har- 
mony of  his  songs  and  the  hearty  good-fellowship  of 
his  toasts.  We  drink  still,  perhaps  we  shall  always 
drink  till  the  end  of  time,  l)ut  all  the  romance  of  the 
bowl  is  gone  ;  the  last  trace  of  its  beauty  went  a\  ith  the 
frigid  abandonment  of  the  toast. 

Vol.  I.— 1 1 


162  THE  TOASTS  OF  THE  KIT-KAT. 

There  was  some  excuse  for  wine  when  it  brouglit  out 
that  now  forgotten  expression  of  good-will.  INIany  a 
feud  was  reconciled  in  the  clinking  of  glasses ;  just  as 
many  another  was  begun  Avhen  the  cup  was  drained  too 
deeply.  The  first  quarter  of  the  last  century  saw  the 
end  of  all  the  social  glories  of  the  wassail  in  this  coun- 
try, and  though  men  drank  as  much  fifty  years  later, 
all  its  poetry  and  romance  had  then  disappeared. 

It  Avas  still,  however,  the  custom  at  that  period  to 
call  on  the  name  of  some  fair  maiden,  and  sing  her 
praises  over  the  cup  as  it  passed.  It  was  a  point  of 
honor  for  all  the  company  to  join  the  health.  Some 
beauties  became  celebrated  for  the  number  of  their 
toasts ;  some  even  standino;  toasts  among  certain  sets. 
In  the  Kit-kat  Club  the  custom  was  carried  out  by 
rule,  and  every  member  was  compelled  to  name  a  beau- 
ty, whose  claims  to  the  honor  were  then  discussed,  and 
if  her  name  was  a})proved,  a  separate  bowl  was  conse- 
crated to  her,  and  verses  to  lier  honor  engraved  on  it. 
Some  of  the  most  celebrated  toasts  had  even  their  por- 
traits liuns;  in  the  club-room,  and  it  Avas  no  slijiht  dis- 
tinction  to  be  the  favorite  of  the  Kit-kat.  When  only 
eight  years  old,  Lady  Mary  Wortley  Montagu  enjoyed 
this  privilege.  Her  father,  the  Lord  Dorchester,  after- 
Avards  Evelyn,  Duke  of  Kingston,  in  a  fit  of  caprice, 
proposed  "the  pretty  little  child"  as  ids  toast.  The 
other  members,  Avho  had  never  seen  her,  objected;  tlic 
Peer  sent  for  her,  and  there  could  no  longer  be  any 
question.       The  forAvard  little  girl   was   handed   from 


rOKTKAITS  OF  LADIES  OF  THE   KIT-KAT.     163 

knee  to  knee,  petted,  pro])al)ly,  by  Addison,  Congrcvc, 
Vanbrugh,  Garth,  and  many  another  famous  wit.  An- 
otlicr  celebrated  toast  of"  tlie  Kit-kat,  mentioned  by 
AVMlpole,  Avas  Lady  jNIolyneux,  Avho,  he  says,  died  smok- 
ing a  ])ij)e. 

This  cliil)  was  no  less  celebrated  for  its  portraits  tli;in 
for  tlic  hid'cs  it  Inn'onMl.  They,  tlie  portraits,  were  all 
])aiiitf(l  by  Kneller,  and  all  of  one  size,  ■which  thence 
got  the  name  of  Kit-kat;  they  were  hung  round  the 
club-room.  Jacob  Tonson,  the  publisher,  was  secretary 
to  the  club. 

Defoe  tells  us  the  Kit-kat  held  the  first  rank  anions' 
the  clubs  of  the  early  part  of  the  last  century,  and  cer- 
tainly tlie  names  of  its  members  comprise  as  many  wits 
as  we  could  expect  to  find  collected  in  one  society. 

Addison  must  have  liccii  past  forty  when  he  became 
a  member  of  the  Kit-kat.  His  '*  Cato  "  had  won  him 
the  general  applause  of  tlie  Whig  party,  who  could  not 
allow  so  fine  a  writer  to  slip  from  among  them.  lie 
h:id  long,  too,  played  the  courtier,  and  was  "quite  a 
gentleman."  A  place  among  the  exclusives  of  the 
Kit-kat  was  only  the  just  reward  of  such  attainments, 
and  he  had  it.  I  shall  not  be  asked  to  give  a  notice 
of  a  man  so  universally  known,  and  one  who  ranks 
rather  with  the  humorists  than  the  wits.  It  Avill  suf- 
fice to  say,  that  it  was  not  till  after  the  publication  of 
"The  Spectator,"  and  some  time  after,  that  he  joined 
our  society. 

Congreve  T  have  chosen  out  of  this  set  for  a  sep- 


164  THE  MEMBERS  OF  THE   KIT-KAT. 

arate  life,  for  this  man  happens  to  present  a  very 
average  sample  of  all  their  peculiarities.  Congreve 
was  a  literary  man,  a  poet,  a  wit,  a  beau,  and — what 
unhappily  is  quite  as  much  to  the  purpose — a  prof- 
ligate. The  only  point  he,  therefore,  wanted  in 
common  with  most  of  the  members,  was  a  title ;  but 
few  of  the  titled  members  combined  as  many  good 
and  bad  qualities  of  the  Kit-kat  kind  as  did  William 
Congreve. 

Another  dramatist,  whose  name  seems  to  be  insep- 
arable from  Congreve's,  was  that  mixture  of  bad  and 
good  taste — Yanbrugh.  The  author  of  "  The  Re- 
lapse," the  most  licentious  play  ever  acted; — the 
builder  of  Blenheim,  the  ugliest  house  ever  erected, 
was  a  man  of  good  family,  and  Walpole  counts  him 
among  those  who  "  wrote  genteel  comedy,  because 
they  lived  in  the  best  company."  We  doubt  the 
loti-ic  of  this;  but  if  it  hold,  how  is  it  that  Van 
wrote  plays  which  the  l)cst  company,  even  at  that 
age,  condemned,  and  neither  good  nor  l)ad  company 
can  read  in  the  present  day  without  being  shocked? 
If  the  conversation  of  the  Kit-kat  Avas  anything  like 
that  in  this  member's  comedies,  it  must  have  been 
highly  edifying.  However,  I  have  no  doubt  Van- 
brugh  passed  for  a  gentleman,  whatever  his  conver- 
sation, and  he  was  certainly  a  wit,  and  apparently 
somewhat  less  licentious  in  his  morals  than  the  rest. 
Yet  what  Pope  said  of  his  literature  may  be  said,  too, 
of  some  acts  of  his  life: — 


A  GOOD  WIT  AND   A   I^AD  ARCHITECT.       1G5 
"How  \':in  wants  f(racc,  who  never  wanted  wit." 

And  his  quarrel  witli  "  Queen  Surah  "  of  Marlborough, 
though  the  (.luches.s  was  by  no  means  the  most  agree- 
alile  woman  in  the  world  to  deal  with,  is  not  much  to 
A'mu's  honor.  ^Vh('Il  tlic  nation  voted  half  a  million 
to  build  that  hideous  mass  of  stone,  the  irregular  and 
unsightly  piling  of  which  caused  Walpole  to  say  that 
the  architect  "  had  emptied  quarries,  rather  than  built 
houses,"  and  Dr.  Evans  to  write  this  epitaph  for  the 
builder — 

"Lie  lieavv  on  liini,  Eartli,  for  lie 
Laid  many  a  heavy  load  on  thee," 

Sarah  haggled  over  "  seven-pence  halfpenny  a  bushel ;" 
Van  retorted  by  calling  her  "stupid  and  troublesome," 
and  "  that  wicked  woman  of  jNIarlborough,"  and  after 
the  Duke's  death,  wrote  that  the  Duke  had  left  her 
"twelve  thousand  pounds  a-year  to  keep  lierself  clean 
and  go  to  law."  Whether  she  employed  any  portion 
of  it  on  the  former  object  we  do  not  pretend  to  say, 
but  she  certainly  spent  as  much  as  a  miser  could  on 
litiiration.  A'^an  himself  being  one  of  the  unfortunates 
she  attacked  in  this  way. 

The  events  of  Vanbnigh's  life  were  varied.  He  be- 
gan life  in  the  army,  but  in  1G97  gave  the  stage  "  The 
Relapse."  It  was  sufficiently  successful  to  induce  him 
to  follow  it  up  with  the  "  Provoked  Wife,"  one  of  the 
wittiest  pieces  produced  in  those  days.  Charles,  Earl 
of  Carlisle,  Deputy  Earl  Marshal,  for  whom  he  built 


166  "WELL-NATURED  GARTH." 

Castle  Howard,  made  him  Clarcncicux  King-at-arms 
in  1704,  and  lie  was  knighted  by  George  I.,  9tli  of 
September,  1714.  In  1705  he  joined  Congreve  in 
the  management  of  the  Haymarket,  Avhich  he  himself 
built.  George  I.  made  him  Comptroller-general  of 
the  royal  works.  He  had  even  an  experience  of  the 
Bastille,  where  he  was  confined  for  sketching  fortifica- 
tions in  France.  He  died  in  1726,  with  the  reputa- 
tion of  a  good  wit,  and  a  bad  architect.  His  conver- 
sation was,  certainly,  as  light  as  his  buildings  were 
heavy. 

Another  memljer,  almost  as  well  known  in  his  day, 
was  Sir  Samuel  Garth,  the  physician,  "  well-natured 
Garth,"  as  Pope  called  him.  He  won  his  fame  by  his 
satire  on  the  apothecaries  in  the  shape  of  a  poem  called 
"The  Dispensary."  When  delivering  the  funeral 
oration  over  Dryden's  body,  which  had  been  so 
long  unburied  that  its  odor  beo;an  to  be  disas^reeable, 
he  mounted  a  tub,  the  top  of  wliich  fell  through  and 
left  the  doctor  in  rather  an  awkward  position.  He 
gained  admission  to  the  Kit-kat  in  consequence  of  a 
vehement  eidogy  on  King  William  which  he  had  in- 
troduced into  his  Harveian  oration  in  1G*J7.^  It  was 
Garth,  too,  who  extemporized  most  of  the  verses  wliich 
w^re  inscribed  on  the  toasting-glasses  of  their  club,  so 
that  he  may,  par  excellence,  be  considered  the  Kit-kat 
poet.  He  was  the  physician  and  friend  of  Marlborough, 
■with  whose  sword  he  was  knighted  by  George  I.,  who 
'  Tlie  Kit-knt  club  w:is  not  foiindeil  till  1703. 


"A    liKTTKU  WIT  THAN    I'OET."  107 

made  liiin  his  ]>liy8ici;iii  in  ordinary.  Garth  -was  a 
very  jovial  man,  and,  some  say,  not  a  very  religious 
one.  Pope  said  he  was  as  good  a  Christian  as  ever 
lived,  'Mvithout  knowing  it."  lie  certainly  had  no 
affectation  of  piety,  and  if  cliaritable  and  good- 
natnred  acts  could  take  a  man  to  heaven,  he  de- 
served to  go  there.  lie  had  his  doubts  about  faith, 
and  is  said  to  have  died  a  Romanist.  This  he  did  in 
1710,  and  the  poor  and  the  Kit-kat  must  both  have 
felt  his  loss.  lie  was  perhaps  more  of  a  wit  than  a 
poet,  although  ho  has  been  classed  at  times  with  Gray 
and  Prior ;  he  can  scarcely  take  the  same  rank  as 
other  verse-making  doctore,  such  as  Akenside,  Darwin, 
and  Armstrong;.  He  seems  to  have  been  an  active, 
healthy  man — perhaps  too  much  so  for  a  poet — for  it 
is  on  record  that  he  ran  a  match  in  the  Mall  with  the 
Duke  of  Grafton,  and  beat  him.  He  was  fond,  too,  of 
a  hard  frost,  and  had  a  regular  speech  to  introduce  on 
that  subject:  "Yes,  sir,  'fore  Gad,  very  fine  weather, 
sir — very  wholesome  weather,  sir — kills  trees,  sir — 
verv  good  for  man.  sir." 

Old  INIarlboroush  had  anotlicr  intimate  friend  at 
the  club,  Avho  was  probably  one  of  its  earliest  mem- 
bers. Tliis  was  Arthur  Maynwaring,  a  poet,  too,  in  a 
way,  but  more  celebrated  at  this  time  for  his  liaison 
witli  ^Irs.  Oldfield,  tlie  famous  but  disreputable  actress, 
with  whom  he  fell  in  love  when  he  was  forty  years  old, 
and  whom  he  instructed  in  the  niceties  of  elocution, 
making   her    rehearse    her    parts    to    liim    in    private. 


168  THE  POETS  OF  THE   KIT-KAT. 

Maynwaring  was  born  in  16G8,  educated  at  Oxford, 
and  destined  for  the  bar,  for  which  he  studied.  lie 
began  life  as  a  vehement  Jacobite,  and  even  sup- 
ported that  party  in  sundry  pieces ;  but  like  some 
others,  he  was  easily  converted,  when,  on  coming  to 
town,  he  found  it  more  fashionable  to  bo  a  Whig.  He 
held  two  or  three  posts  under  the  Government,  whose 
cause  he  now  espoused :  had  the  honor  of  the  dedica- 
tion of  "  The  Tatler  "  to  him  by  Steele,  and  died  sud- 
denly in  1712,  He  divided  his  fortune  between  his 
sister  and  his  mistress,  Mrs.  Oldfield,  and  his  son  by 
the  latter.  Mrs.  Oldfield  must  have  grown  rich  in  her 
sinful  career,  for  she  could  afford,  when  ill,  to  refuse  to 
take  her  salary  from  the  theatre,  though  entitled  to  it. 
She  acted  best  in  Vanbrugh's  "  Provoked  Husband," 
so  well,  in  fact,  that  the  manager  gave  her  an  extra 
fifty  pounds  by  Avay  of  acknowledgment. 

Poetizing  seems  to  have  been  as  much  a  polite 
accomplishment  of  that  age  as  letter-writing  was  of 
a  later,  and  a  smattering  of  science  is  of  the  present 
day.  Gentlemen  tried  to  be  poets,  and  poets  gentle- 
men. The  consequence  was,  that  both  made  fools  of 
themselves.  Among  the  poetasters  who  belonged  to 
the  Kit-kat,  we  must  mention  Walsh,  a  country  gen- 
tleman, member  of  Parliament,  and  very  tolerable 
scholar.  He  dabbled  in  odes,  elegies,  epitaphs,  and 
all  that  small  fry  of  the  muse  which  was  then  so 
plentiful.  He  wrote  critical  essays  on  Virgil,  in  which 
he  tried  to  make  out  that  the  shepherds  in  the  days  of 


POETS   AND  Til  KIR   TATROXS.  1G9 

tlic  Roman  poet  were  very  well-bred  gentlemen  of  good 
education  !  lie  was  a  devoted  admirer  and  friend  of 
Dryden,  and  lie  encouraged  Pope  in  his  earlier  career 
so  kintlly  tliat  the  little  viper  actually  praised  him! 
\Val.sh  died  somewhere  about  1700  in  middle  life. 

A\  e  have  not  nearly  done  witli  the  poets  of  the  Kit- 
kat.  A  still  snmlhM-  one  (lian  \Valsh  was  Stepney, 
who,  like  Garth,  liad  Ix'LTun  life  as  a  violent  Tory, 
and  turned  coat  when  he  lound  his  interest  lay  the 
otiier  way.  lie  was  Avell  repaid,  for  from  1(5! >2  to 
170B  he  was  sent  on  no  less  than  eiuht  diplomatic 
missions,  chiefly  to  German  courts,  lie  owed  this  pref- 
erment to  the  good  luck  of  having  been  a  schoolfellow 
of  Charles  Montagu,  afterwards  Earl  of  Halifax.  He 
died  about  1707,  and  had  as  grand  a  monument  and 
epitaph  in  Westminster  Abbey  as  if  he  had  been  a 
Milton  or  Dryden. 

AVhen  you  meet  a  dog  trotting  along  the  road,  you 
naturally  expect  that  his  master  is  not  far  off.  In  the 
same  way,  where  you  find  a  poet,  still  more  a  poetaster, 
there  you  may  feel  certain  you  will  light  upon  a  patron. 
The  Kit-kat  was  made  up  of  INIiCcenases  and  tlu'ir 
humble  servants;  and  in  the  same  club  Avith  Addison, 
Congreve,  Vanbrugh,  and  the  minor  poets,  Ave  are  not 
at  all  surprised  to  find  Sir  Robert  AValpole,  the  Duke 
of  Somerset,  Halifax,  and  Somers. 

Halifax  was,  imr  excellence,  the  Maecenas  of  his 
day,  and  Pope  described  him  admirably  in  the  charac- 
ter of  Bufo : — 


170  LORD  HALIFAX  AS  A   POET. 

"Proud  as  Apollo,  on  his  forked  liill, 
Sat  full-blown  Bufo,  pufl''d  by  every  quill ; 
Fed  with  soft  dedication  all  day  long, 
Horace  and  lie  went  hand  in  hand  in  song." 

The  dedications  poured  in  thickly.  Steele,  Tickell, 
Philips,  Smith,  and  a  crowd  of  lesser  lights,  raised  my 
lord  each  one  on  a  higher  pinnacle ;  and  in  return  the 
poAverful  minister  Avas  not  forgetful  of  the  douceur 
which  well-tuned  verses  were  accustomed  to  receive. 
He  himself  had  tried  to  be  a  poet,  and  in  1703  wrote 
verses  for  the  toasting-cups  of  the  Kit-kat.  His  lines 
to  a  Dowager  Countess  of  *  *  *  *  are  good  enough  to 
make  us  surprised  that  he  never  wrote  any  better. 
Take  a  specimen  : — 

"Fair  Queen  of  Fop-land  in  her  royal  style; 
Fo})-land  the  greatest  part  of  this  great  isle ! 
Nature  did  ne'er  so  equally  divide 
A  female  heart  'twixt  piety  and  pride : 
Her  waiting-maids  prevent  the  peep  of  day, 
And  all  in  order  at  her  toilet  lay 
Prayer-books,  patch-boxes,  sermon-notes,  and  paint, 
At  once  t'  improve  the  sinner  and  the  saint." 

A  Maecenas  who  paid  for  his  dedications  was  sure  to 
be  Avell  spoken  of,  and  Halifax  has  been  made  out  a 
wit  and  a  poet,  as  Avell  as  a  clever  statesman.  Halifax 
got  his  earldom  and  the  Garter  from  George  I.,  and 
died,  after  enjoying  them  less  than  a  year,  in   1715. 

Chancellor  Somers,  with  wlioni  TlMlifux  was  associ- 
ated ill  tlu'  iinj)eaclimeiit  case  in  1701,  was  a  far  1)e(ter 


CHANCELLOR  SOMEIIS.  171 

iiinii  ill  every  respeet.  His  was  probaljly  the  purest  cha- 
racter ainonji:  tliosc  of  all  the  members  of  the  Kit-kat. 
lie  was  the  son  of  a  Worcester  attorney,  and  horn  in 
1G52.  He  was  ediicatcil  nt  Trinity,  Oxford,  and  rose 
purely  by  merit,  distinguishing  himself  at  the  bar  and 
on  the  bench,  unwearied  in  his  application  to  business, 
and  an  exact  and  ujjright  judge.  At  schodl  he  was  a 
terribly  good  boy,  keeping  to  his  book  in  play-hours. 
Tliroiighout  life  his  habits  were  simple  and  regular, 
and  his  character  unblemished.  He  sle]>t  Imt  little, 
and  in  later  j^ears  had  a  reader  to  attend  him  at  wak- 
ing. Willi  such  habits  he  can  scarcely  have  been  a 
constant  attender  at  the  club  ;  and  as  he  died  a  bach- 
elor, it  would  be  curious  to  learn  wliat  ladies  he 
selected  for  his  toasts.  In  his  latter  years  his  mind 
was  weakened,  and  he  died  in  1710  of  apoplexy. 
AValpole  calls  him  "one  of  those  divine  men  who,  like 
a  chapel  in  a  palace,  remained  unprofaned,  while  all 
the  rest  is  tvrannv,  corruption,  and  follv." 

A  huse  stout  figure  rolls  in  now  to  join  the  toasters 
in  Shire  Lane.  In  the  ]>uffy,  once  handsome  face, 
there  are  signs  of  age,  for  its  owner  is  past  sixty ;  yet 
he  is  dressed  in  superl)  fashion  ;  and  in  an  liour  or  so, 
when  the  bottle  has  been  diligently  circulated,  his  Avit 
will  be  brighter  and  keener  than  that  of  any  young 
ma II  present.  I  do  not  say  it  will  lie  repeatable,  for 
the  talker  belongs  to  a  past  age,  even  coarser  than  that 
of  the  Kit-knt.  He  is  Charles  Sackville,^  famous  as 
'  For  some  notice  of  Lcnl  Dorset,  see  p.  107. 


172        CHAELES  SACKVII>LE,  LORD  DORSET. 

a  companion  of  the  merriest  and  most  disreputable  of 
the  Stuarts,  famous — or,  rather,  infamous — for  his 
mistress,  Nell  Gwynn,  famous  for  his  verses,  for  his 
patronage  of  poets,  and  for  his  wild  frolics  in  early 
life,  when  Lord  Buckhurst.     Rochester  called  him 

"The  best  good  man  with  the  worst-natured  muse;" 

and  Pope  says  he  was 

"The  scourge  of  pride,  though  sanctified  or  great, 
Of  fops  in  learning  and  of  knaves  in  state." 

Our  sailors  still  sinir  the  ballad  which  he  is  said  to 
have  Avritten  on  the  eve  of  the  naval  engagement 
between  the  Duke  of  York  and  Admiral  Opdam, 
which  bccrins — 


-&' 


"To  all  you  ladies  now  on  land, 
We  men  at  sea  indite." 

With  a  fine  classical  taste  and  a  courageous  spirit, 
he  had  in  early  days  been  guilty  of  as  much  iniquity 
as  any  of  Charles's  profligate  court.  lie  was  one  of  a 
band  of  young  libertines  who  robbed  and  murdered  a 
poor  tanner  on  the  high-road,  and  were  acquitted,  less 
on  account  of  the  poor  excuse  they  dished  up  for  this 
act  than  of  their  rank  and  fashion.  Such  fine  gentle- 
men could  not  be  hanged  for  the  sake  of  a  mere  work- 
man in  those  days — no  !  no  I  Yet  he  does  not  seem  to 
have  repented  of  this  transaction,  for  soon  after  he  was 
engaged  with  Sedley  and  Ogle  in  a  series  of  most  in- 


LESS  CELEBRATED  WITS,  173 

decent  acts  at  the  Cock  Tavern  in  Bow-street,  where 
Sedley,  in  "liirtluhiy  attire,"  made  a  bhisphemous 
oration  from  tlie  balcony  of  the  house.  In  later  years 
he  was  the  pride  of  tlie  poets  :  Dryden  and  Prior, 
Wyclierley,  Iludibras,  and  llymer,  were  all  encour- 
aged by  him,  and  repaid  liini  with  ])raises.  Pope  and 
Dr.  KiiiLf  were  no  less  bounlilul  in  their  euhigies  of 
this  Miecenas.  His  conversation  was  so  much  appre- 
ciated that  gloomy  William  HI.  chose  him  as  his  com- 
panion, as  merry  Charles  had  done  before.  The 
famous  Irish  1)allad,  whicli  my  Uncle  Toby  was  alwaj'S 
hunnuing,  '•  Lillibullero  bullen-a-lah,"  but  which  Percy 
attrilnites  to  the  Marquis  of  Wharton,  another  mem- 
ber of  the  Kit-kat,  was  said  to  have  been  written  by 
Buckhurst.  lie  retained  his  wit  to  the  last;  and 
Congreve,  who  visited  him  wiien  he  was  dying,  said, 
"  Faith,  he  stutters  more  wit  than  other  people  have  in 
their  best  health."      He  died  at  P>atli  in  1706. 

Buckhurst  does  not  complete  the  list  of  conspicuous 
niendjers  of  this  club,  but  the  remainder  were  less 
celebrated  for  their  wit.  There  was  the  Duke  of 
Kingston,  the  father  of  Lady  Mary  AVortley  Mon- 
tagu ;  Granville,  who  imitated  Waller,  and  attempted 
to  make  his  "  Myra  "  as  celebrated  as  the  court-poet's 
Saccharissa,  who,  by  the  way,  was  the  mother  of  the 
Earl  of  Sunderland:  the  Duke  of  Devonshire,  whom 
Walpole  calls  "a  patriot  among  the  men,  a  gallant 
among  the  ladies,"  ami  wlio  founded  Chatsworth  ;  and 
other  noblemen,  chieily  iielonging  to  the  latter  part  of 


174  THE  MEMBERS  OF  THE   KIT-KAT. 

the  seventeenth  century,  and  all  devoted  to  William 
III.,  though  they  had  been  bred  at  the  courts  of 
Charles  and  James. 

With  such  an  array  of  wits,  poets,  statesmen,  and 
gallants,  it  can  easily  be  believed  that  to  be  the  toast  of 
the  Kit-kat  was  no  slight  honor ;  to  be  a  member  of  it 
a  still  greater  one  ;  and  to  be  one  of  its  most  distin- 
guished, as  Congreve  was,  the  greatest.  Let  us  now 
see  what  title  this  conceited  beau  and  poet  had  to  that 
position. 


^iJUUiam  <fougvi'lie. 


W1LLIA^[    C'ONOREVR 

When  "Queen  Sanili  "  of  Murlboroiifrli  vciul  the 
silly  cpita})li  uhicli  Henrietta,  Duchess  of  Mai-ll)on)u;^fli, 
had  written  and  had  engraved  on  tlic  iiioniiinent  she  set 
uj>  to  Congreve,  she  said,  with  one  of  the  true  Blenheim 
sneers,  "I  know  not  what  liappiness  she  might  have 
in  liis  company,  but  I  am  sure  it  was  no  honor,''  allud- 
ing to  her  daughter's  eulogistic  phrases. 

Queen  Sarah  was  right,  as  she  often  was  Avhen  con- 
demnation was  called  for:  and  however  amusing  a 
companion  the  dramatist  may  have  been,  he  was  not  a 
man  to  respect,  for  he  had  not  only  the  common  vices 
of  his  age,  but  added  to  them  a  foppish  vanity,  toady- 
ism, and  fine  gentlemanism  (to  coin  a  most  necessary 
word),  Avliich  we  scarcely  expect  to  meet  with  in  a 
man  who  sets  up  for  a  satirist. 

It  is  the  fate  of  greatness  to  have  falsehoods  told  of 
it,  and  of  nothing  in  connection  with  it  more  so  than 
of  its  origin.  If  the  converse  be  true,  Congrevc  ought 
to  have  l)een  a  great  man,  for  the  place  and  time  of 
his  l)ii-th  are  l)oth  subjects  of  dispute.  Oh  I  ha])py 
Giflford  !  or  ha[)py  Croker  !  why  did  you  not — perhaps 
you  did — go  to  work  to  set  the  world  right  on  this 
matter — you,  to  whom  a  date  discoverctl  is  the  highest 

175 


176         WHEN  AND   WIIEEE   WAS  HE  BORN? 

palm  (no  pun  intended,  I  assure  you)  of  glory,  and  who 
Avould  rather  Shakespeare  had  never  written  "  Hamlet," 
or  Homer  the  "  Iliad,"  than  that  some  miserable  little 
forgotten  scrap  which  decided  a  year  or  a  place  should 
have  been  consigned  to  flames  before  it  fell  into  your 
hands  ?  Why  did  you  not  bring  the  thunder  of  your 
abuse  and  the  pop-gunnery  of  your  satire  to  bear  upon 
the  question,  "  How,  when,  and  where  was  William 
Congreve  born?" 

It  was  Lady  Morgan,  I  think,  who  first  "  saw  the 
light "  (that  is,  if  she  was  born  in  the  day-time)  in  the 
Irish  Channel.  If  it  had  been  only  some  one  more 
celebrated,  we  should  have  had  by  this  time  a  series 
of  philosophical,  geographical,  and  ethnological  pam- 
plilets  to  prove  that  she  was  English  or  Irish,  according 
to  the  fancies  or  prejudices  of  the  writers.  It  was  cer- 
tainly a  very  Irish  thing  to  do,  which  is  one  argument 
for  the  Milesians,  and  again  it  was  done  in  the  Irish 
Channel,  which  is  another  and  a  stronger  one ;  and 
altogether  we  are  not  inclined  to  go  into  forty-five 
pages  of  recondite  facts  and  fine-drawn  arguments, 
mingled  Avith  the  most  vehement  abuse  of  anybody 
who  ever  before  wrote  on  the  subject,  to  prove  that 
this  country  had  the  honor  of  producing  her  ladyship 
— the  Wild  Irish  Girl.  We  freely  give  her  up  to  the 
sister  island.  But  not  so  William  Congreve,  though 
we  are  ecjually  indifferent  to  the  honor  in  his  case. 

The  one  party,  then,  assert  that  he  was  born  in  this 
country,  the  other  that  he  breathed  liis  first  air  in  the 


conflicting;  dates.  177 

Emcrjild  fslc.  WliiclicviT  he  the  true  state  of  the 
case,  we,  as  Eiij^lishnicu.  jirt'frr  to  a^rec  in  tlic  com- 
nionlv  reeeiveil  <)])iiii(>ii  thai  he  caine  into  tliis  wicked 
worhl  at  the  viUa^e  of  IJardsea,  or  Baidscy,  not  I'ar 
from  Leeds  in  tlie  eounty  of  York.  Let  the  Baid- 
seyans  iimncdiately  erect  a  statue  to  liis  honor,  if 
they  have  heen  remiss  enough  to  neglect  him  here- 
tofore. 

But  our  difficulties  are  not  ended,  for  there  is  a  sim- 
ilar doubt  about  the  year  of  his  birth.  Ilis  earliest 
biographer  assures  us  he  Avas  born  in  1072,  and  others 
that  he  was  baptized  three  years  before,  in  KJOit. 
Such  a  proceeding  might  well  be  taken  as  a  proof  of 
his  Hibernian  extraction,  and  accordingly  we  find  ■Ma- 
lone  supporting  the  earlier  date,  producing,  of  course, 
a  certificate  of  baptism  to  support  himself;  and  as  we 
liave  a  very  great  respect  for  his  authority,  we  beg  also 
to  support  Mr.  Malone. 

This  being  settled,  we  have  to  examine  who  were  his 
parents  ;  and  this  is  satisfactorily  answered  by  his  earl- 
iest biographer,  Avho  informs  us  that  he  was  of  a  very 
ancient  family,  being  ''  the  only  surviving  son  of  Wil- 
liam Congreve,  Esq.  (who  was  second  son  to  Richard 
Congreve,  Esq.,  of  Congreve  and  Stretton  in  tliat 
county),"  to  wit,  Yorkshire.  Congreve  jw^rc  held  a 
military  command,  which  took  him  to  Ireland  soon 
after  the  dramatist's  birth,  and  thus  young  AVilliam 
had  the  incomparable  advantaiijc  of  beinff  educated  at 

Kilkenny,    and    afterwards    at    Trinity,    Dublin,    the 
Vol.  I.— 12 


178  THE  MIDDLE  TEMPLE. 

"  silent  sister,"  as   it  is  commonly  called  at  our  uni- 
versities. 

At  the  age  of  nineteen,  this  youth  sought  the  classic 
shades  of  the  Middle  Temple,  of  which  he  was  entered 
a  student,  but  by  the  honorable  society  of  which  he 
n'as  never  called  to  the  bar  ;  but  whether  this  was  from 
a  disinclination  to  study  "  Coke  upon  Lyttleton,"  or 
from  an  incapacity  to  digest  the  requisite  number  of 
dinners,  the  devouring  of  which  qualify  a  young  gen- 
tleman to  address  an  enlightened  British  jury,  we  have 
no  authority  for  deciding.  lie  was  certainly  not  the 
first,  nor  the  last,  young  Templar  who  has  quitted 
special  pleading  on  a  crusade  to  the  heights  of  Parnas- 
sus, and  he  began  early  to  try  the  nib  of  his  pen  and 
the  color  of  liis  ink  in  a  novel.  Elieu  !  how  many  a 
novel  has  issued  from  the  dull,  dirty  chambers  of  that 
same  Temple  !  The  waters  of  the  Tliames  just  there 
seem  to  have  been  augmented  by  a  mingled  flow  of 
sewage  and  Helicon,  though  the  former  is  undoubtedly 
in  the  greater  proportion.  This  novel,  called  "  Incog- 
nita;  or.  Love  and  Duty  Reconciled,"  seems  to  have 
been — for  I  confess  that  I  have  not  read  more  than  a 
chapter  of  it,  and  hope  I  never  may  be  forced  to  do  so 
— great  rubbish,  with  good  store  of  villains  and  ruffians, 
love-sick  maidens  who  tune  their  lutes — always  conve- 
niently at  hand — and  love-sick  gallants  who  run  their 
foes  through  the  l)ody  with  the  greatest  imaginable 
ease.  It  was,  in  fact,  such  a  tuivel  as  James  might 
have  written,  had  he  lived  a  century  and  a  half  ago. 


CONOREVE  FINDS    HIS    NOCATIOX.  17I> 

It  lii'diiirlit  its  Miillidr  lull  little  f;iino,  ;ui<l  accordingly 
lie  tiiriu'(l  his  attention  to  another  Itraneh  oi"  literature, 
and  ill  1<»1>-J  prodiiceil  '' Tlic  Old  iiachelor,"'  a  jilay  of 
Avliich  Dryden,  his  IViciid.  iiad  so  hiirh  an  opinion  tli:it 
he  ("iIUmI  it  the  "  hest  iir.st  ])lay  he  had  ever  read." 
However,  before  lieinii;  put  on  the  stage  it  was  sub- 
mitted to  Dryden,  and  by  him  and  others  prepared  for 
representation,  so  tliat  it  Avas  well  fathered.  It  was 
successful  enough,  and  Congrevc  thus  found  his  voca- 
tion. In  his  dedication — a  regular  piece  of  flunnnery 
of  those  days,  for  which  authors  were  often  well  paid, 
either  in  cash  or  interest — he  acknowledges  a  debt  of 
gratitude  to  Lord  Halifax,  who  appears  to  have  taken 
the  young  man  )>y  the  hand. 

The  young  Temjjlar  coiihl  do  nothing  better  noAV 
than  write  another  play.  I'lay-making  was  as  fiishion- 
able  an  amusement  in  those  days  of  ( )ld  Drury,  the  only 
patented  theatre  then,  as  novel-writing  is  in  18(10;  and 
when  the  young  ensign,  Vanbrugh,  could  write  comedies 
and  take  the  direction  of  a  theatre,  it  was  no  derogation 
to  the  dignity  of  the  Staffordshire  squire's  grandson  to 
do  as  much.  Accordinjily,  in  the  followino;  vear  he 
brought  out  a  better  comedy,  ''  The  Double  Dealer," 
with  a  prologue  which  was  spoken  by  the  famous  Anne 
Bracegirdle.  She  must  have  been  eighty  years  old  when 
Horace  Walpole  wrote  of  her  to  that  other  Horace — 
Mann:  "Tell  Mv.  Chute  that  his  friend  Bracegirdle 
breakfasted  with  me  this  morning.  As  she  went  out 
and  wanted  her  clogs,  she  turned  to  me  and  said  :   '  I 


180  VEESES  TO  QUEEN   MARY. 

remember  at  tlie  playhouse  they  used  to  call,  Mrs. 
Ohlfiekl's  chair !  Mrs.  Barry's  ch)gs  I  and  Mrs.  Brace- 
girdle's  pattens  !'  "  These  three  ladies  were  all  buried 
in  Westminster  Abbey,  and,  except  Mrs.  Gibber,  the 
most  beautiful  and  most  sinful  of  them  all — though 
they  were  none  of  them  s[)Otless — are  the  only  actresses 
whose  ashes  and  memories  are  hallowed  by  the  place, 
for  we  can  scarcely  say  that  they  do  it  much  honor. 

The  success  of  "The  Double  Dealer"  was  at  first 
moderate,  although  that  highly  respectable  woman, 
Queen  jNIary,  honored  it  with  her  august  presence, 
which  forthwith  calletl  up  verses  of  the  old  adulatory 
style,  though  witli  less  point  and  neatness  than  those 
addressed  to  the  Viru'in   Queen  : 


o 


"Wit  is  again  (he  tare  of  majesty," 

said  the  poet,  and 

"Thus  flourished  wit  in  our  forcfatliers'  age, 
And  thus  tlie  lionian  and  Athenian  stage. 
Wlioso  wit  is  liest,  we'll  not  presume  to  tell, 
r>ut  this  we  know,  our  audience  will  excel; 
VoY  never  was  in    liome  nor  Athens  seen 
So  lair  a  circle,  and  so  lu'ight  a  {jueen." 

But  tliis  was  not  enough,  for  when  Her  Majesty  de- 
parted for  another  realm  in  tlie  same  year,  Congreve 
])ut  her  into  a  higldy  eulogistic  pastoral,  under  the 
name  of  Pastora,  and  nitide  some  com))liments  on 
her,  whicli  Avere  considered  t]u>  finest  strokes  of  poetry 


OIJ)    r.KTTKUToX.  l.Sl 

:iih1  lliittci'v  coiiiImiiciI,  lliul  an  age  of"  aiMrcssc'S  and 
culoirifs  fould  j)i-()(liic-c. 

"As  loflv  i)iiK'S  o'citop  tlic  Iiiwly  sttvil, 
So  (lid  luT  grac-LTiil  lieiglil  ;ill  ii,viiij)!is  exceed, 
To  wliirli  excellin;?  heij,'lit  isliu  Ijore  a  luiml 
lliiiiiblu  as  osiers,  bending  to  the  wind. 
****** 

I  mourn  I*:istora  dead;   kt  Alliion  nioiuii, 
And  sable  clouds  her  ehalkie  elills  adorn." 

This  play  uas  (Icdicatcd  to  Lonl  Halifax,  of  whom 
Avc  have  .^^pokcn,  and  ^vho  continued  to  be  Congreve's 
j)atron. 

The  fame  of  the  vniiiig  man  \vas  now  made ;  hut 
in  the  following  vear  it  was  destined  to  shine  out 
more  brilliantly  still.  Old  Bcttcrton — one  of  the 
best  JIandets  that  over  trod  the  stage,  and  of  whom 
Booth  declared  that  Avlien  he  Avas  phiving  the  Ghost 
to  Ins  TIamlct,  his  look  of  surprise  and  horror  was  so 
natural,  that  Booth  could  not  for  some  minutes  recover 
liimself — was  now  a  \-efcran  in  his  sixtieth  year.  Yoy 
forty  years  he  had  walkc(l  the  b(»ards,  and  made  a  for- 
tune for  the  patentees  of  Diiiry.  It  was  very  shabby 
of  them,  therefore,  to  give  .some  of  his  best  parts  to 
younger  actors.  Betterton  was  disirusted,  and  deter- 
mined  to  set  uji  for  himself,  to  which  end  he  managed 
to  ]»rocui-e  another  patent,  turned  the  (,»ueen's  Court  in 
JVrtugal  How,  liiiicolns  Inn,  into  a  theatre,  and  opened 
it  on  the  :!lUli  id'  A|.ril,  iii'.T).  The  liuilding  had  been 
before    u.-ed    as    a    tln'alri'    in    the    days    of  the    Merry 


182  THE  TENNIS  COURT  THEATRE. 

Monarch,  and  Tom  Killigrew  had  acted  here  some 
twenty  years  before ;  but  it  had  again  become  a 
"  tennis-quatre  of  the  lesser  sort,"  says  Gibber,  and 
the  new  theatre  was  not  very  grand  in  fabric.  But 
Betterton  drew  to  it  all  the  best  actors  and  actresses  of 
his  former  company ;  and  Mrs.  Barry  and  Mrs.  Brace- 
girdle  remained  true  to  the  old  man.  Congreve,  to  his 
honor,  espoused  the  same  cause,  and  the  theatre  opened 
Avith  his  play  of  "  Love  for  Love,"  which  was  more  suc- 
cessful than  either  of  the  former.  The  veteran  him- 
self spoke  the  prologue,  and  fair  Bracegirdle  the  epi- 
logue, in  which  the  poet  thus  alluded  to  their  change 
of  sta<2;e : 

"And  thus  our  audience,  which  did  once  resort 
To  shining  theatres  to  see  our  sport, 
Now  find  us  tost  into  a  tennis-court. 
Thus  from  the  past,  we  liojte  for  future  grace : 

I  beg  it 

And  some  here  know  I  liave  a  begging  face." 

The  king  himself  completed  the  success  of  the  opening 
by  attending  it,  and  the  theatre  in  Lincoln's  Inn 
Fields  might  have  ruined  the  older  house,  if  it  had 
not  been  for  the  rapidity  with  which  Vanbrugh  and 
Gibber,  who  wrote  for  Old  Drurv,  manasied  to  concoct 
their  pieces;  while  Gongrevc  was  a  slower,  though 
perhaps  better,  writer.  "Love  for  Love"  was  here- 
after a  favorite  of  Betterton's,  and  when  in  1  TOO,  a  year 
before  his  death,  the  coni])any  gave  t!ie  <)I«1  mini — tlien 
ill    ill   health,   poor  cii'euiiistances,   and    bad  spirits — a 


CONGKEVE  ABANDONS  THE  DRAMA.        1.S;J 

hoTicfit,  he  chose  tliis  ])hiy,  and  himself,  though  more 
tliaii  seventy,  acted  the  part  of  Valentine,  supported 
by  Mrs.  Bracegirdle  as  Angelina,  and  Mrs.  Uarry  as 
Frail. 

The  young  dramatist,  with  all  his  success,  was  not 
satisfied  with  his  fame,  and  resolved  to  show  the  world 
that  he  had  as  much  poetry  as  wit  in  him.  This  he 
failed  to  do;  and,  like  better  writers,  injured  his  own 
fame,  by  not  being  contented  with  what  he  had,  Con- 
grcve — the  wit,  the  dandy,  the  man  about  town — took 
it  into  his  head  to  write  a  tragedy.  In  KJlt"  '•  The 
Mourning  Bride"  was  acted  at  the  Tennis  Court 
Theatre.  The  author  was  wise  enough  to  return  to  his 
former  muse,  and  some  time  after  produced  his  best 
piece,  so  some  think,  "  The  Way  of  the  Worhl,"  which 
Avas  also  performed  by  Betterton's  company  ;  but,  alas  I 
for  overwriting — that  cacoethes  of  imprudent  men — it 
Avas  almost  hissed  off  the  stage.  Whether  this  Avas 
owing  to  a  weariness  of  Congreve's  style,  or  whether 
at  the  tin)e  of  its  first  appearance  Collier's  attacks,  of 
which  anon,  had  ah-eady  disgusted  the  public  Avith  the 
obscenity  and  immorality  of  this  Avriter,  I  do  not  knoAv: 
but,  Avhatever  the  cause,  the  consequence  Avas  that  Mr. 
William  Congreve,  in  a  fit  of  pique,  made  up  his  mind 
never  to  Avrite  another  ])iece  for  the  stage — a  Avise  reso- 
lution, perhaps — and  to  turn  fine  gentleman  instead. 
With  l)ie  exception  of  conqxising  a  masque  caUed  the 
"  .jiidij,uient  of  Paris,""  and  an  o]i(ra,  '"(lemele,""  which 
was  ne\er  iM'iTnrincd.  lie  ki'pt  I  his  resolution  very  lion- 


184  JEREMY   COLLIER. 

estly ;    and    so   Mr.   William    Congreve's   career   as   a 
play^vright  ends  at  the  early  age  of  thirty. 

But  though  he  abandoned  the  drama,  he  was  not 
allowed  to  retire  in  peace.  There  Avas  a  certain  worthy, 
but  peppery  little  man,  who,  though  a  Jacobite  and  a 
clergyman,  w"as  staunch  and  true,  and  as  superior  in 
character — even,  indeed,  in  vigor  of  Avriting — to  Con- 
greve,  as  Somers  was  to  every  man  of  his  age.  This 
very  Jeremy  Collier,  to  whom  we  owe  it  that  there  is 
any  English  drama  fit  to  be  acted  before  our  sisters  and 
wives  in  the  present  day,  Jeremy,  the  peppery,  purged 
the  stafre  in  a  succession  of  Jeremiads. 

Born  in   1650,   educated   at   Cambridge    as  a  poor 
scholar,  ordained  at  the  age  of  twenty-six,  presented 
throe  years  later  with  the  living  of  Ampton,  near  Bury 
St.  Edmunds,  Jeremy  had  two  ({ualities  to  recommend 
him  to  Englishmen — respectability  and  pluck.      In  an 
age  when  the  clergy  were  as  bad  as  the  l)lackest  sheep 
in  their  flocks,  Jeremy  was  distinguished  by  purity  oi 
life  ;   in  an  age  when  the  only  safety  lay  in  adopting 
the   j)rinciple3  of   the  Vicar  of   Bray,   Jeremy  was  a 
Nonjuror,  and  of  this  nothing  could  cure  him.      'J'he 
Revolution  of   1088  w'as   scarcely   etleeted,   when   tlie 
fiery  little  partisan  published  a  ])amphlet,  which  was 
rewarded  by  a  residence  of  some  months  in  NcAvgate, 
not  in   capacity  of  chaplain.      l>ut  he  was  scarcely  let 
out,   wlien   again  went  his   furious   pen,    and   loi-  four 
years  he  continued  to  assail  the   new  governnu-nt,  till 
his  hands  were  shackled  and  his  mouth  closed  in   the 


TiiK  imm(m;ality  of  the  stage.        l.so 

prison  of  ''  The  Gate-house."  Now,  see  the  character 
of  the  man.  He  was  liberated  upon  giving  hail, 
l»ut  liai]  no  sooner  reflected  on  this  liberation  than 
he  cauie  to  the  conclusion  that  it  was  wrong,  by  ofller- 
ing  security,  to  recognize  tlie  authority  (d"  uuigistrates 
appointed  by  a  usurper,  as  he  held  William  to  ])e,  and 
vohiiit;ii-ily  surrendered  hiuiselt"  to  his  judges.  Of 
course  he  was  again  coinmittcd,  but  this  time  to  the 
Kinir's  Bench,  and  would  doubtless  in  a  few  vi-ars 
have  made  the  tour  of  the  London  prisons,  if  his 
enemies  had  not  been  tired  of  trying  him.  Once 
nujre  at  liberty,  he  passed  the  next  three  years  in 
retirement. 

After  161)3,  Jeremy  Collier's  name  was  not  brought 
before  the  pultlic  till  1006,  when  ho  publicly  absolved 
Sir  John  Friend  and  Sir  William  Perkins,  at  their 
execution  foi-  being  concerned  in  a  ])lot  to  assassiiuite 
King  Williaui.  His  "Essays  on  Moral  Subjects" 
Avere  published  in  ll>i>7:  2d  vol.,  1705;  od  vol., 
1T0!».  r)iit  the  oidy  way  to  ))ut  out  a  firebrand  like 
this  is  to  let  it  alon(\  and  Jeremy,  l)eing  no  longer 
persecuted,  ))egan,  at  last,  to  think  the  game  was 
grown  stupid,  and  gave  it  u[>.  He  was  a  Avell-nu'an- 
inir  man,  however,  and  as  long  as  he  had  the  luxury 
of  a  grievance  W(»uld   injure  no  one. 

He  ("oiirtd  one  now  in  the  immorality  of  his  age,  and 
if  he  had  left  politics  to  themselves  from  the  first,  he 
might  have  done  miieh  more  good  than  he  ilid.  Against 
the  vices  of  a  eoint  and  courtly  circles  it  was  useless  to 


186  nONI  SOIT  QUI  MAL  Y   PENSE. 

start  a  crusade  single-handed ;  but  his  quaint  clever 
pen  might  yet  dress  out  a  powerful  Jeremiad  against 
those  who  encouraged  the  licentiousness  of  the  people. 
Jeremy  was  no  Puritan,  for  he  was  a  Nonjuror  and  a 
Jacobite,  and  we  may  therefore  believe  that  the  cause 
was  a  good  one,  when  we  find  him  adopting  precisely 
the  same  line  as  the  Puritans  had  done  before  him. 
In  1(308  he  published,  to  the  disgust  of  all  Drury  and 
Lincoln's  Inn,  his  "  Short  View  of  the  Immorality  and 
Profaneness  of  the  English  Stage,  together  with  the 
Sense  of  Antiquity  upon  this  Argument." 

While  the  King  of  Naples  is  supplying  his  ancient 
Venuses  with  gowns,  and  putting  his  Marses  and  Her- 
culeses  into  pantaloons,  there  are — such  arc  the  varie- 
ties of  opinion — respectable  men  in  this  country  who 
call  Paul  de  Kock  the  greatest  moral  writer  of  his 
age,  and  who  would  yet  like  to  see  "  The  Relapse," 
"Love  for  Love,"  and  the  choice  specimens  of 
Wycherley,  Farquhar,  and  even  of  Beaumont  and 
Fletcher,  acted  at  the  Princess's  and  the  Haymarket 
in  the  year  of  grace  18(30.  I  am  not  writing  "  A 
Short  View"  of  this  or  any  other  moral  subject;  but 
this  I  must  say — the  effect  of  a  sight  or  sound  on  a 
human  being's  silly  little  passions  must  of  necessity 
be  relative.  Staid  people  read  "  Don  Juan,"  Lewis's 
"Monk,"  the  plays  of  Congreve,  and  any  or  all  of  tlie 
publications  of  Holywell  Street,  without  more  tlian 
disirust  at  tlieir  ()l)sc('uitv  niid  admiration  for  their 
beauties.     Put  could  we  be  i)ardoncd  fur  putting  these 


VERY  imi'iiopp:k  things.  187 

works  into  the  IkukIs  of  "sweet  seventeen,"  ov  mak- 
ing Cliristnius  presents  of  tlieni  to  our  boys?  Ignor- 
ance of  evil  is,  to  a  certain  extent,  virtue:  let  l>ovs  Ite 
boys  in  purity  of  mind  as  long  as  they  can  :  let  the 
iinrefincMl  '' great  unwashc<|  "  be  treated  also  much  in 
tho'  same  way  as  young  peoj)le.  I  inaintain  that  to  a 
coarse  mind  all  im|)roper  ideas,  however  beautifully 
clothed,  suggest  only  sensual  thoughts — nay,  the  very 
modesty  of  the  garments  makes  them  the  more  insid- 
ious— the  more  dangerous.  I  would  rather  give  my 
boy  John,  Massinger,  or  Beaumont  and  Fletcher, 
whose  very  improper  things  "  are  called  by  their  prop- 
er names,"  than  let  him  dive  in  the  prurient  innuendo 
of  these  later  writers. 

But  there  is  no  need  to  argue  the  question — the 
public  has  decided  it  long  since,  and,  except  in  indel- 
icate ballets,  and  occasional  rather  French  passages  in 
farce,  our  modern  stage  is  free  from  immorality.  Even 
in  Garrick's  days,  when  men  were  not  much  more  re- 
fined than  in  those  of  Queen  Anne,  it  was  found  im- 
possible to  put  the  old  drama  on  the  stage  without  con- 
siderable weeding.  Indeed  I  doubt  if  even  the  liberal 
upholder  of  Paul  do  Kock  would  call  Congrevc  a  moral 
writer ;  but  I  confess  I  am  not  a  competent  judge,  for 
risiim  tcmcatis,  my  critics,  I  have  not  read  his  works 
since  I  was  a  boy,  and  Avhat  is  more,  I  have  no  inten- 
tion of  readinii  them.  I  well  remember  jiettina:  into 
my  hands  a  large  thiek  volume,  adorned  with  miser- 
able   woodcuts,    ami    bearino;    on    its    back    the     title 


188  CONGREVE'S   WRITINGS. 

"  Wychcrley,  Congrcve,  Vanbrugh,  and  Farquliar." 
I  devoured  it  at  first  Avith  the  same  avidity  Avith 
Avliich  one  might  welcome  a  bottle-imp,  Avho  at  the 
hour  of  one's  dulness  turned  up  out  of  the  carpet  and 
offered  you  delights  ueAV  and  old  for  nothing  but  a 
tether  on  your  soul :  and  with  a  like  horror,  boy 
though  I  was,  I  recoiled  from  it  when  any  better 
moment  came.  It  seemed  to  me,  when  I  read  this 
book,  as  if  life  Averc  too  rotten  for  any  belief,  a  nest 
of  sharpers,  adulterers,  cut-throats,  and  prostitutes. 
There  Avas  none — as  far  as  I  remeud>er — of  that 
amiable  Aveakness,  of  that  better  sentiment,  Avhich 
in  Ben  Jonson  or  Massingcr  reconcile  us  to  human 
nature.  If  truth  lie  a  test  of  genius,  it  must  be  a 
proof  of  true  })oetry  that  man  is  not  made  uglier 
than  ho  is.  Nay,  his  very  ugliness  loses  its  inten- 
sity and  falls  u})on  our  diseiised  tastes,  for  Avant  of 
some  goodness,  some  purity  and  honesty  to  relieve  it. 
I  Avill  not  say  that  there  is  none  of  this  in  Congrcve. 
I  oidy  knoAv,  that  my  recollecti(Ui  of  his  plays  is  like 
that  of  a  vile  nightmare,  Avliich  I  Avould  not  for  any- 
thinrr  have  return  to  me.  I  have  read,  since,  books  as 
b:id,  perhaps  Avorse  in  some  respects,  but  I  haye  found 
the  redemption  here  niul  there.  I  Avould  no  more 
place  Shandy  in  any  boy's  hands  than  Congrevc 
;ind  Fanpihar;  and  yet  f  cmu  iv:m1  Tristram  again 
and  again  Avith  delight;  for  ;niii<l  nil  that  is  l)nd  there 
stand  out  Trim  and  T<»by,  pure  speciiiiois  of  tlir  best 
side  ol'  human   nature,  coming  home   to  us  and  telling 


T't;o?*itscuous  attacks.  ihu 

lis  tliiit  tlu'  worM  is  nut  all  Iiail.  Tlicrc  may  l»(j  such 
ttna-lics  ill  ''  Lovr  fur  lidvc,"  or  '■  The  Way  of  the 
World" — -1  know  not  and  rari'  not.  To  my  rcmciii- 
hrancc  Coii^-ri've  is  l)iit  a  iionihk'  nii^htmaiv.  ami  may 
the  fates  forhid  I  shuuhl  he  forced  to  go  through  his 
phiys  again. 

Perhaps,  then,  Jeremy  ^vas  not  far  wrong,  Avhen  he 
attacked  these  specimens  of  the  drama  Avith  an  unre- 
lenting Nemesis;  but  he  was  not  before  his  age.  It 
Avas  less  the  obvious  coarseness  of  these  productions 
with  which  he  found  fault  than  their  demoralizing  ten- 
dency in  a  direction  which  we  should  now,  perha])s, 
consider  innocuous.  Certainl}'  the  Jeremiad  overdid 
it,  and  like  a,  swift,  but  not  straiglit  bowler  at  cricket, 
he  sent  balls  which  no  wi(d<et-keeper  could  stop,  and 
which,  therefore,  were  harmless  to  the  batter.  lie  did 
not  want  boldness.  lie  attacked  Drvden,  now  close 
upon  his  grave ;  Congrcvc,  a  3'oung  man;  Yanl)rugh, 
Gibber,  Farquhar,  and  the  rest,  all  alive,  all  in  the 
zenith  of  their  fxme,  and  all  as  popular  as  writers  could 
])e.  It  was  as  much  as  if  a  man  should  stand  up  to- 
day and  denounce  Dickens  and  Thackeray,  with  the 
exception  that  well-meaning  peoj^e  went  along  with 
Jeremy,  whereas  very  few  would  do  more  than  smile  at 
the  zeal  of  any  one  who  tilted  against  our  modern  pets. 
Jeremy,  no  doubt,  was  hold,  but  he  wanted  tact,  and 
so  gave  his  enemy  occasion  to  blaspheme,  lie  made 
out  cases Avhere  there  were  none,  and  let  alone  what  Ave 
moderns  should  <lenounce.     So  Congrevc  took  uj*  the 


100  JEREMY'S  "SHORT  VIEWS." 

cudgels  against  liim  with  much  wit  and  much  coarse- 
ness, and  the  two  fought  out  the  battle  in  many  a 
pamphlet  and  many  a  letter.  But  Jeremy  Avas  not  to 
be  beaten.  His  "  Short  View"  was  followed  by  "A 
Defence  of  the  Short  View,"  a  "  Second  Defence  of  the 
Short  View,"  "  A  Farther  Short  View,"  and,  in  short, 
a  number  of  "  Short  Views,"  which  had  been  better 
merged  into  one  "Long  Sight."  Jeremy  grew  coarse 
and  bitter ;  Congreve  coarser  and  bitterer ;  and  the 
whole  controversy  made  a  pretty  chapter  for  the  "  Quar- 
rels of  Authors."  But  the  Jeremiad  triumphed  in  the 
long  run,  because,  if  its  method  was  bad,  its  cause  w^as 
good,  and  a  succeeding  generation  voted  Congreve  im- 
moral. Enough  of  Jeremy.  We  owe  him  a  tribute 
for  his  pluck,  and  though  no  one  reads  hini  in  the 
present  day,  we  may  be  thankful  to  him  for  having  led 
the  Avay  to  a  better  state  of  things.^ 

Congreve  defended  himself  in  eight  letters  addressed 
to  Mr.  IVIoyle,  and  avc  can  only  say  of  them,  that,  if 
anything,  they  are  yet  coarser  than  the  plays  he  would 
excuse. 

The  Avorks  of  the  young  Tcmphir,  and  his  connection 
Avith  Betterton,  introduced  him  to  all  the  Avriters  and 
Avits  of  his  day.  He  and  Vanbrugh,  though  rivals, 
Avere  felloAv-Avorkers,  and  our  glorious  Haymarket 
Theatre,  which  has  gone  on  at  times  Avlien  Drury  and 
Covent  Garden  have  been  in   despair,  OAves  its  origin 

'  Drytlen,  In  the  Preface  to  liis  Fables,  acknowledged  that  Collier 
"had,  in  many  jioints,  taxed  him  justly." 


I)1;YT)EN'S    DKATir.  101 

to  (l:eir  coiilcilcnicv.  Uiit  \';iiil)i-u;rli".s  theatre  was 
oil  tlie  site  of  the  present  Opcia  House,  and  tlw  Hay- 
niaiket  was  set  up  as  a  rival  eoucern.  Vanbru<^irs 
Avas  built  in  1705,  ami  met  the  usual  fate  of  theatres, 
being  burnt  down  some  eighty-four  years  after.  It  is 
curious  enough  that  this  house,  destined  for  the  "  legit- 
imate drama  " — often  a  very  illegitimate  performance 
— was  opened  by  an  opera  set  to  Italian  music,  so  that 
"  Ilcr  Majesty's "  has  not  much  departed  from  the 
original  cast  of  the  place. 

Perhaps  Congreve's  best  friend  was  Drydcn.  Tliis 
man's  life  and  death  are  pretty  -well  known,  and  even 
his  funeral  has  been  described  time  and  again,  liut 
Corinna — as  she  was  styled — gave  of  the  hitter  an  ac- 
count whieli  has  been  called  romantic,  and  much  dis- 
credited. Tlierc  is  a  deal  of  characteristic  luunor  in 
her  story  of  the  funeral,  and  as  it  has  long  been  lost 
sight  of,  it  may  not  be  unpalatable  here  :  Dryden  died 
on  May-day,  1701,  and  Lord  Halifax '  undertook  to 
give  his  body  a  private  funeral  in  Westminster  Abbey. 

"On  the  Saturday  following,"  writes  Corinna,  "the 
Company  came.  The  Corps  was  put  into  a  Velvet 
Hearse,  and  eighteen  ^Mourning  Coaches  filled  with 
Company  attending.  When,  just  before  they  began 
to  move,  Lord  Jeffreys,^  with  some  of  his  rakish  Com- 

*  Charles  Montagu,  Earl  of  Halifax.  T>onl  Halifax  was  born  in 
IGHl,  and  diid  in  1715.     He  was  railed  "  Mouse  Montagu." 

'Son  of  .Judge  Jeilries:  .satirized  by  Pope  under  the  name 
'•■  Bufo." 


192  DKYDEN'S  FUNERAL. 

panions,  comino-  bv,  in  Wine,  ask'd  whose  Funeral? 
And  being  tobl ;  '  What !'  cries  he,  '  shall  Dry  den,  the 
greatest  Honor  and  Ornament  of  the  Nation,  be  buried 
after  this  private  Manner?  No,  Gentlemen!  let  all 
that  lov'd  i\Ir.  Dryden,  and  honor  his  Memory,  alight, 
and  join  Avith  me  in  gaining  my  Lady's  Consent,  to 
let  me  have  the  Honor  of  his  Interment,  which  shall 
be  after  another  manner  than  this,  and  I  will  bestow 
XIOOO  on  a  Monument  in  the  Abbey  for  him,'  The 
Gentlemen  in  the  Coaches,  not  knowing  of  the  Bishop 
of  Rochester's  Favor,  nor  of  Lord  Halifax's  generous 
Design  (these  two  noble  Spirits  having,  out  of  Respect 
to  the  Family,  enjoin'd  Lady  Elsabcth  and  her  Son  to 
Jccep  their  Favor  concealed  to  the  World,  and  let  it 
pass  for  her  own  Expense),  readily  came  out  of  the 
Coaches,  and  attended  Lord  Jeffreys  up  to  the  Lady's 
Bedside,  who  was  then  sick.  He  repeated  the  purport 
of  what  he  had  l)cfore  said,  but  she  absolutely  refusing, 
he  fell  on  his  knees,  vowing  never  to  rise  till  his  request 
was  granted.  The  rest  of  the  Company,  by  his  Desire, 
kneeled  also ;  she  being  naturally  of  a  timorous  Dis- 
position, and  then  under  a  sudden  surprise,  fainted 
away.  As  soon  as  she  recovcr'd  her  Speech,  she 
cry'd,  '  No,  no  !'  '  Enough,  gentlemen,'  rcply'd  he 
(rising  bi'iskly),  '  My  Lady  is  very  good,  she  says, 
Go,  go  !'  She  repeated  lier  former  Words  with  all 
her  Strength,  but  alas  in  vnin  !  lier  feeble  voice  was 
iost  in  tlieir  Acclamations  of  Joy  !  and  Lord  Jeffreys 
ordered  the  Hearseman  to  carry  the  Corps  to  Russell's, 


WHAT  CAME  OF  A   "DRUNKEN   FROLIC."      193 

nil  undertaker  in  Cheapsidc,  and  leave  it  there,  till  lie 
sent  orders  for  the  Embalment,  -which,  be  added,  should 
be  after  the  Royal  Manner.  His  Directions  were 
obey'd,  the  Company  dispersed,  and  Lady  Elsabetli 
and  Mr.  Charles  remained  Inconsolable.  Next  ]\Iorn- 
ing  Mr.  Charles  waiteil  on  Lord  Halifax,  etc.,  to  ex- 
cuse his  Mother  and  self,  bv  relatin";  the  real  Truth, 
But  neither  his  Lordship  nor  the  Bishop  would  admit 
of  any  Plea ;  especially  the  latter,  who  had  the  Abbey 
lighted,  the  ground  open'd,  \\w  (.'Iioir  attending,  an 
Anthem  ready  set,  and  himself  waiting  for  some  Hours, 
without  any  Corps  to  bury.  Russell,  after  three  days' 
Expectance  of  Orders  for  Embalment,  without  receiv- 
ing any,  Avaits  on  Lord  Jeffreys,  who,  pretending  Ig- 
norance of  the  Matter,  tiirn'd  it  off  with  an  ill-natured 
Jest,  saying,  '  Those  who  observed  the  orders  of  a 
drunken  Frolick,  deserved  no  better ;  that  he  re- 
membered nothin<T  at  all  of  it,  and  he  mij^ht  do  what 
he  pleased  with  the  Corps.'  On  this  Mr.  Russell  waits 
on  Lady  Elsabetli  and  ^\\\  Dryden  ;  but  alas,  it  was 
not  in  their  power  to  answer.  The  season  was  very 
hot,  the  Deceas'd  had  liv'd  high  and  fast;  and  being 
corpulent,  and  abounding  with  gross  Humors,  grew 
very  offensive.  The  Undertaker,  in  short,  threat- 
en'd  to  bring  home  the  Corps,  and  set  it  before  the 
Door.  It  cannot  be  easily  imagin'd  what  grief,  shame, 
and  confusion  seized  this  unhappy  Family.  They 
begged  a  Day's  Respite,  which  Avas  granted.  Mr. 
Charles  wrote  a  very  handsome  Letter  to  Lord  Jef- 
VoL.  I.— la 


194  A  TUB-PREACHER. 

freys,  who  returned  it  with  this  cool  Answer,  '  He 
knew  nothing  of  the  Matter,  and  wouhl  be  troubled 
no  more  about  it.'  He  then  addressed  the  Lord  Hali- 
fax and  Bishop  of  Rochester,  who  were  both  too  justly 
tho'  unhappily  incensed,  to  do  anything  in  it.  In  this 
extream  distress.  Dr.  Garth,  a  man  who  entirely  lov'd 
INIr.  Dryden,  and  Avas  withal  a  Man  of  Generosity  and 
great  Humanity,  sends  for  the  Corps  to  the  College  of 
Physicians  in  Warwick  Lane,  and  proposed  a  Funeral 
by  Subscription,  to  Avhich  himself  set  a  most  noble 
example.  IMr.  Wycherley,  and  several  others,  among 
whom  must  not  be  forgotten  Henry  Cromwell,  Esq., 
Captain  Gibbons,  and  Mr.  Christopher  Metcalfe,  Mr. 
Dryden's  Apothecary  and  intimate  Friend  (since  a  Col- 
legiate Physician),  who  with  many  others  contributed 
most  largely  to  the  Subscription  ;  and  at  last  a  Day, 
about  three  weeks  after  his  Decease,  was  appointed  for 
the  Interment  at  the  Abbey.  Dr.  Garth  pronounced  a 
fine  Latin  Oration  over  the  Corps  at  the  College ;  but 
the  Audience  beino;  numerous,  and  the  Room  laro;e,  it 
was  requisite  the  Orator  should  be  elevated,  that  he 
might  be  heard.  But  as  it  unluckily  happen'd  there  was 
notliing  at  hand  but  an  old  Beer-Barrel,  which  the  Doc- 
toi'  \vith  much  good-nature  mounted ;  and  in  the  midst  of 
his  Oration,  beating  Time  to  the  Accent  witli  his  Foot, 
tho  Head  broke  in,  and  bis  Feet  sunk  to  the  Bottom, 
which  occasioned  tbo  malicious  Report  of  his  Enemies, 
'That  lie  was  turned  a  Tub- Preacher.'  However,  he 
finished  llie  Oration  with  a  superior  grace  and  genius, 


A   MOB   IX  TIIK  A  DREY.  105 

to  tlie  loud  Acelaniations  of  Mirtli.  wliicli  inspir'd  llic 
iiiixM  or  latlu'i- ]\I<il)-Au(litors.  Tiie  Procession  Ijoiriin 
to  inuvo,  ;i  luuuerous  Train  of  Coaches  attended  the 
Hearse:  But,  good  God  I  in  what  Disorder  can  only 
he  express'd  hy  a  Six|)enny  I'amphlet,  soon  after  {lul^- 
lislidl,  ciitithMl  '  Dryden's  Funcrah"  At  last  the  Corps 
arrived  at  the  Alihcy,  whicli  was  all  iiidiirhted.  No 
Ur";an  plaved,  no  Anthciu  suul^  :  onlv  two  of  the  Sinjj- 
ing  hoys  preceded  the  Corps,  who  sung  an  Ode  of  Hor- 
ace, with  each  a  small  candle  in  their  Hand.  1'he 
Butchers  and  other  Moh  hroke  in  like  a  Delu<re,  so 
that  only  ahout  eiirht  or  ten  Gentlemen  could  gain 
Admission,  and  those  forced  to  cut  the  Way  w  ith  their 
drawn  Swords.  The  CofTiii  in  tliis  Disorder  was  let 
down  into  Chancers  (Jrave,  with  as  much  confusion, 
and  as  little  Ceremony,  as  w'as  possible;  every  one 
glad  to  save  themselves  from  the  Gentlemen's  Swords, 
or  the  Clubs  of  the  Mob.  When  the  Funeral  was 
over,  Mr.  Charles  sent  a  Challenge  to  Lord  Jeffreys, 
who  refusing  to  answer  it,  he  sent  several  others,  and 
went  often  himself,  hut  could  neither  get  a  Letter  de- 
livei-'d,  nor  Admittance  to  speak  to  him,  that  he  re- 
solved, since  his  Lordship  refused  to  answer  him  like 
a  Gentleman,  he  woidd  watch  an  Opportunity  to  meet 
him,  and  (ight  ofr-hand,  tlio"  with  all  the  Rules  of 
Honor;  which  his  Lordship  hearing,  left  the  Town, 
and  ^\y.  Charles  could  never  have  the  satisfaction  to 
meet  him,  tho'  he  sought  it  till  his  death  with  the 
utmost  Application." 


196        DRYDEN'S  SOLICITUDE  FOR  HIS  SON. 

Diyden  was,  perhaps,  the  hist  man  of  learning  that 
believed  in  astrology  ;  though  an  eminent  English  au- 
thor, now  living,  and  celebrated  for  the  variety  of  his 
acquirements,  has  been  known  to  procure  the  casting 
of  horoscopes,  and  to  consult  a  noted  "  astrologer," 
who  gives  opinions  for  a  small  sum.  The  coincidences 
of  prophecy  are  not  more  remarkable  than  those  of 
star-telling  ;  and  Dry  den  and  the  author  I  have  re- 
ferred to  were  probably  both  captivated  into  belief  by 
some  fatuitous  realization  of  their  horoscopic  predictions. 
Nor  can  we  altogether  blame  their  credulity,  when  we 
see  biology,  table-turning,  rapping,  and  all  the  family 
of  imposture,  taken  up  seriously  in  our  own  time. 

On  the  birth  of  his  son  Charles,  Dryden  immedi- 
ately cast  his  horoscope.  The  following  account  of 
Dryden's  paternal  solicitude  for  his  son,  and  its  result, 
may  be  taken  as  embellished,  if  not  apocryphal.  Evil 
hour,  indeed — Jupiter,  Venus,  and  the  Sun  Avere  all 
"under  the  earth;"  Mars  and  Saturn  were  in  s(|uare: 
ciglit,  or  a  multiple  of  it,  would  be  fatal  to  the  child — 
the  square  foretold  it.  In  his  eighth,  his  tAventy-third, 
or  his  thirty-second  year,  he  was  certain  to  die,  thougli 
he  might  possibly  linger  on  to  the  age  of  thirty-four. 
The  stars  did  all  they  could  to  keep  up  their  reputa- 
tion. When  the  boy  was  eight  years  old  he  nearly 
lost  his  life  by  being  buried  under  a  heap  of  stones  out 
of  an  ohl  wall,  knocked  down  by  a  stag  and  hounds  in 
a  hunt.  l>ut  tlie  stars  were  not  to  be  beaten,  and 
though   the  child  recovered,  went  in   for  the  game  a 


CONGREVKS  AMIilTION.  l!)? 

second  tiiiio  in  his  twenty-third  year,  when  he  fell,  in 
a  fit  of  giddiness,  fi'om  a  tower,  and,  to  use  Lady  Elsa- 
beth's  words,  was  "  niash'd  to  a  luiinnny."  Still  the 
battle  was  not  over,  and  the  niiuumy  returned  in  due 
course  to  its  human  form,  though  considerably  dis- 
figured. Mars  and  Saturn  were  naturally  disgusted 
at  liis  recovery,  and  resolved  to  finisli  tlie  disobedient 
youtli.  As  we  have  seen,  he  in  vain  sought  his  fate  at 
the  hand  of  Jeffreys;  but  we  must  conclude  that  the 
offen(k'd  constellations  took  Neptune  in  partnership, 
for  in  due  course  tlie  youth  met  with  a  watery  grave. 

After  abandoning  the  drama,  Congreve  appears  to 
have  come  out  in  the  light  of  an  independent  gentle- 
man, lie  was  ah'eady  sufficiently  introduced  into  liter- 
ary society ;  Pope,  Steele,  Swift,  and  Addison  were  not 
onlv  his  friends  but  liis  admirers,  and  we  can  well  be- 
lieve  that  their  admiration  was  considerable,  when  we 
find  the  one  dedicating  his  "  Miscellany,"  the  other  his 
translation  of  the  "  Iliad,"  to  a  man  who  was  qualified 
neither  by  raidc  nor  fortune  to  play  Msecenas. 

At  Avhat  time  he  was  admitted  to  the  Kit-kat  I  am 
not  in  a  ])osition  to  state,  but  it  must  have  l)een  after 
171"),  and  l»v  that  time  he  was  a  middle-ai^ed  man;  his 
fame  Avas  long  since  achieved;  and  whatever  might  be 
thought  of  his  Avorks  and  his  controversy  with  Collier, 
he  was  recognized  as  one  of  the  literary  stars  at  a 
peri(»(l  wlicn  the  great  courted  tlie  clever,  and  wit  was 
a  passport  to  any  society.  Congreve  had  plenty  of 
that,  ami  jirobably  at  tlie   Kit-kat  was  the  life  of  the 


198      ANECDOTE  OF  VOLTAIRE  AND  CONGREVE. 

party  Avlien  Vanbrugli  Avas  awaj  or  Addison  in  a 
graver  mood.  Untroubled  by  conscience,  he  could 
launch  out  on  any  subject  whatever ;  and  his  early  life, 
spent  in  that  species  of  so-called  gayety  which  was  then 
the  routine  of  every  young  man  of  the  world,  gave  him 
ample  experience  to  draw  upon.  But  Congreve's  am- 
bition was  greater  than  his  talents.  No  man  so  little 
knew  his  real  value,  or  so  grossly  asserted  one  Avhich 
he  had  not.  Gay,  handsome,  and  in  good  circum- 
stances, he  aspired  to  be,  not  Congreve  the  poet,  not 
Congreve  the  Avit,  not  Congreve  the  man  of  mind,  but 
simply  Congreve  the  fine  gentleman.  Such  humility 
would  be  charming  if  it  were  not  absurd.  It  is  a  vice 
of  scribes  to  seek  a  character  for  which  they  have  little 
claim.  Moore  loved  to  be  tliought  a  diner-out  rather 
than  a  poet ;  even  Byron  affected  the  fast  man  when 
he  might  have  been  content  with  the  name  of  "  genius ;" 
but  Cono;reve  went  farther,  and  was  ashamed  of  being 
poet,  dramatist,  genius,  or  what  you  will.  An  anec- 
dote of  him,  told  by  Voltaire,  who  may  have  been  an 
"  awfu'  liar,"  but  had  no  temptation  to  invent  in  such 
a  case  as  this,  is  so  consistent  with  what  we  gather  of 
the  man's  character,  that  one  cannot  but  think  it  is 
true. 

The  philosopher  of  Ferney  was  anxious  to  see  and 
converse  with  a  brother  dramatist  of  such  celebrity  as 
the  author  of  "  The  Way  of  the  World."  lie  expected 
to  find  a  man  of  a  keen  satirical  mind,  Avho  would  join 
liiin  in  a  laugh  against  humanity.     lie  visited  Con- 


AUTHOKSIIII'   AS   A    PROFESSION.  I'M) 

grove,  iiiid  iiiitiirally  l)t'gaii  Id  t:ilk  ol'  his  uorks.  'I'lic 
fine  gontleinau  spoke  of  them  as  trifles  utterly  beiieuth 
his  notice,  and  told  him,  with  an  affectation  which  per- 
haps was  sincere,  that  he  wished  to  be  visited  as  a  gen- 
tleman, not  as  an  author.  One  can  imagine  the  dis- 
gust of  his  brother  dramatist.  Voltaire  replied,  that 
had  Mr.  Congrevc  been  nothing  more  than  a  gentleman, 
he  sliould  not  have  taken  the  trouble  to  call  on  him, 
and  therewith  retired  with  an  expression  of  merited 
contempt. 

It  is  only  in  the  present  day  that  autliorsiiip  is 
looked  upon  as  a  profession,  though  it  has  long  been 
one.  It  is  amusing  to  listen  to  the  sneers  of  men  Avho 
never  wrote  a  book,  or  who,  having  written,  have 
gained  thereby  some  more  valuable  advantage  than 
the  publisher's  cheque.  The  men  who  talk  Avith  hor- 
ror of  writing  for  money,  are  glad  enough  if  their  works 
introduce  them  to  the  notice  of  the  inlluential,  and  aid 
them  in  procuring  a  place.  In  the  same  Avay,  Congreve 
was  not  at  all  ashamed  of  fulsome  dedications,  which 
brought  him  the  favor  of  the  great.  Yet  we  may  ask, 
if.  the  laborer  being  worthy  of  his  hire,  and  the  labor 
of  the  brain  being  the  highest,  finest,  and  most  ex- 
hausting that  can  be,  the  man  who  straightforwardly 
and  without  affectation  takes  guineas  from  his  publisher, 
is  not  lioncster  than  he  who  counts  upon  an  indirect 
reward  for  his  toil  ?  Fortunately,  the  question  is 
almost  settled  l)y  the  example  of  the  first  writers  of 
the  present  day  ;   l)ut  there  are  still  people  who  think 


200  THE  PK(;FESSI0X  OF  MiECEXAS. 

that  one  should  sit  clown  to  a  year's — av,  ten  years' — 
hard  mental  Avork,  and  expect  no  return  but  fame. 
Whether  such  objectors  have  always  private  means  to 
return  to,  or  whether  they  have  never  known  what  it 
is  to  write  a  book,  we  do  not  care  to  examine,  but  they 
are  to  be  found  in  large  numbers  among  the  educated ; 
and  indeed,  to  this  present  day,  it  is  held  by  some 
among  the  upper  classes  to  be  utterly  derogatory  to 
write  for  money. 

AVhether  this  was  the  feeling  in  Congreve's  day  or 
not  is  not  now  the  question.  Those  were  glorious  days 
for  an  author,  who  did  not  mind  playing  the  sycophant 
a  little.  Instead  of  havino;  to  trudije  from  door  to 
door  in  Paternoster  Row,  humbly  requesting  an  inter- 
view, which  is  not  always  granted — instead  of  sending 
that  heavy  parcel  of  MS.,  which  costs  you  a  fortune 
for  postage,  to  publisher  after  publisher,  till  it  is  so 
often  "returned  with  thanks  "  that  you  hate  the  very 
sight  of  it,  the  young  author  of  those  days  had  a  much 
easier  and  more  comfortable  part  to  play.  An  intro- 
duction to  an  influential  man  in  town,  who  again  Avould 
introduce  you  to  a  patron,  was  all  that  was  necessary. 
The  profession  of  jMi\icenas  was  then  as  recognized  and 
established  as  that  of  doctor  or  lawyer.  A  man  of 
money  could  always  buy  brains;  and  most  noblemen 
considered  an  author  to  be  as  necessary  a  part  of  his 
establishment  as  the  footmen  who  ushered  them  into 
my  Lord's  ])resence.  A  fulsome  dedication  in  the 
largest   type  Avas  all   tliat  he  asked:   and  if  a  writer 


ADVANTAGES  OF  A   I'ATROX.  201 

were  .sullicicntly   profuse   in   his   tululution,    lie  ini^Hit 
dine  at   Maecenas'  table,  (Irink    his  sack  and  canary 
Avithotit  stint,  and  ap})ly  to  him  for  cash  Avhcncvor  he 
liniiid    his    pockets    empty.     xSor    was    this  all:    if  a 
Avriter  were  sufficiently  successful  in  his  works  to  re- 
flect honor  on  his  patron,  he  was  eagerly  courted  by 
others  of  the  noble  profession.     He  was  offered,  if  not 
hard  cash,  as  good  an  equivalent,  in   the  shape  of  a 
comfortable  government  sinecure  ;  and  if  this  was  not 
to  be  had,  he  was  sometimes  even  lodged  and  boarded 
by  his  obliged  dedicatee.     In  this  way  he  was  intro- 
duced  into   the   highest   society ;    and   if  he   had   wit 
enough  to  support  the  character,  he  soon  found  himself 
facile  prineeps  in  a  circle  of  the  highest  nobility  in 
the  land.     Thus  it  is  that  in  the  clubs  of  the  day  we 
find  title  and  wcaltli  niinirlinij  with  wit  and  cenius  : 
and  the  writer  Avho  had  begun  life  by  a  cringing  dedi- 
cation, was  now  rewarded  by  the  devotion  and  assiduity 
of  the  men  he  had  once  flattered.     When  Steele,  Swift, 
Addison,  Pope,  and  Congreve  were  the  kings  of  their 
sets,   it  Avas   time  for   authors  to  look    and  talk    bij:. 
Eheu  !  those  happy  days  are  gone ! 

Our  dramatist,  therefore,  soon  discovered  that  a  good 
play  was  the  key  to  a  good  place,  and  the  Whigs  took 
care  that  he  should  have  it.  Oddly  enough,  when  the 
Tories  came  in  they  did  not  turn  liim  out.  Perhaps 
they  wanted  to  gain  him  over  to  themselves;  perhaps, 
like  the  Vicar  of  Bray,  he  did  not  miiul  turning  his 
coat  once  or  twice  in  a  lifetime.      However  this  may 


202  CONGKEVE'S  PEIVATE  LIFE. 

be,  he  managed  to  keep  his  appointment  Avithout  of- 
fending his  OAvn  party  ;  and  when  the  hitter  returned 
to  power,  he  even  induced  them  to  give  him  a  com- 
fortable little  sinecure,  Avhich  went  by  the  name  of 
Secretary  to  the  Island  of  Jamaica,  and  raised  the 
income  from  his  appointments  to   £1200  a  year. 

From  this  period  he  was  little  before  the  public. 
lie  could  afford  now  to  indulge  his  natural  indolence 
and  selfishness.  His  private  life  was  perhaps  not 
worse  than  that  of  the  majority  of  his  contemporaries. 
lie  had  his  intrigues,  his  mistresses,  the  same  love  of 
wine,  and  the  same  addiction  to  gluttony.  He  had  the 
reputation  of  a  wit,  and  Avitli  Avits  he  passed  his  time, 
sufficiently  easy  in  his  circumstances  to  feel  no  damp- 
ing to  his  spirits  in  the  cares  of  this  life.  The  Island 
of  Jamaica  probaldy  gave  him  no  further  trouble  than 
that  of  signing  a  few  papers  from  time  to  time,  and 
giving  a  receipt  for  his  salary.  Ilis  life,  therefore, 
presents  no  very  remarkal)le  feature,  and  he  is  hence- 
forth known  more  on  account  of  his  friends  than  for 
aught  he  may  himself  have  done.  The  best  of  these 
friends  was  Walter  Moyle,  the  scholar,  who  translated 
parts  of  Lucian  and  Xenophon,  and  was  pretty  well 
known  as  a  classic.  He  was  a  Cornish  man  of  inde- 
pendent means,  and  it  was  to  him  that  Congreve  ad- 
dressed tlie  letters  in  whicli  he  attempted  to  defend 
himself  from  the  attacks  of  Collier. 

It  Avas  not  to  be  expected  that  a  Avit  and  a  ))()et 
should  go  through  life  Avithout  a  platonic,  and  accord- 


"MALHllOOK'S"   DAU(;HTKII.  203 

ingly  we  find  our  man  not  only  attacheil,  Itiit  devoted 
to  a  ladv  of  {freat  distinction.  'Pliis  was  no  other  tlian 
Henrietta,  Duchess  of  Marlborough,  the  daughter  of 
"  Malbrook "  himself,  and  of  tlie  famous  "Queen 
Sarah."  Henrietta  was  the  eldest  daughter,  and  there 
was  no  son  to  inherit  the  prowess  of  Churcliill  and  tlic 
parsimony  of  his  \vife.  Tlic  nation — to  ^vhich,  by  the 
way,  the  Marlboroughs  were  never  grateful — would 
not  alh)\v  the  tith'  of  tlieir  ))ct  warrior  to  become  ex- 
tinct, and  a  special  Act  of  Parliament  gave  to  the 
eldest  daughter  the  honors  of  the  duchy. ^  The  two 
Duchesses  of  Marlborougli  liated  each  otlier  cordially. 
Sarahs  temper  was  probably  the  main  cause  of  their 
bickering ;  but  there  is  never  a  feud  l)etwecn  pa- 
rent and  cliild  in  wliicli  l)oih  are  not  more  or  less 
blameable. 

The  Duchess  Henrietta  conceived  a  violent  fancy 
for  the  wit  and  poet,  ami  whatever  her  liusbaiid.  Lord 
Godolpliin,  may  have  thought  of  it,  the  connection 
ripened  into  a  most  intimate  frien<lship,  so  much  so 
that  Congrcve  made  the  duchess  not  only  his  execu- 
trix, l)ut  the  sole  residuary  legatee  of  all  his  ]iroperty.^ 
His  will  gives  us  some  insight  into  the  toadviniif  cha- 
ractcr  of  the  man.  Only  four  ncai-  relations  ai-e  men- 
tioned as  legatees,  and  only  £a40  is  divided  mnong 
them ;    whereas,   after  leaving  £200  to  Mrs.   Brace- 

» See  Burke's  "  reoragc." 

'Tlie  Duchess  of  Marlborough  received  £10,000  hy  Mr.  C'un- 
greve's  will. 


204  LEGACIES  TO  TITLED  FKIENDS. 

gh-(lle,  the  actress ;  .£100,  "  and  all  my  apparel  and 
linnen  of  all  sorts  "  to  a  Mrs.  llooke,  he  divides  the 
rest  between  his  friends  of  the  nobility,  Lords  Cob- 
ham  and  Shannon,  the  Duchess  of  Newcastle,  Lady 
Mary  Godolphin,  Colonel  Churchill  (who  receives 
"  twenty  pounds,  together  with  my  gold-headed 
cane"),  and,  lastly,  "to  tlie  poor  of  the  parish"  the 
magnificent  sum  of  ten  poiuids.  "Blessed  are  those 
who  give  to  the  rich  ;"  these  words  must  surely  have 
expressed  the  sentiment  of  the  worldly  Congreve. 

However,  Congreve  got  something  in  return  from 
the  Duchess  Henrietta,  which  he  might  not  have  re- 
ceived from  "the  poor  of  the  parish,"  to  wit,  a  monu- 
ment, and  an  inscrij)tion  on  it  written  by  her  own 
hand.  I  have  already  said  what  "Queen  Sarah" 
thought  of  the  latter,  and,  for  the  rest,  those  who 
care  to  read  the  nonsense  on  the  walls  of  Westmin- 
ster Abbey  can  decide  for  themselves  as  to  the  honor 
the  poet  received  from  his  titled  friend. 

The  latter  days  of  William  Congi'eve  Avcre  passed 
in  wit  and  gout :  the  Avine,  which  warmed  the  one, 
probably  brought  on  the  latter.  After  a  course  of 
ass's  milk,  which  does  not  seem  to  have  done  him 
much  good,  the  ex-dramatist  retired  to  Batli,  a  very 
fashionable  place  for  departing  life  in,  under  easy  and 
elegant  circumstances.  r)ut  he  not  only  drank  of  the 
springs  beloved  of  King  Bladud,  of  apocryphal  mem- 
ory, but  even  went  so  far  as  to  im1)ibe  the  snail-Avater, 
which  was  then  the  last  species  of  ([uack  cure  in  vogue. 


CONGREVFS  DEATH  AND  BURIAL.  205 

This,  probably,  despatched  him.  But  it  is  only  just 
to  that  disagreeable  little  reptile  that  infests  our  gar- 
dens, and  Avho^c  slime  was  supposed  to  possess  pecu- 
liarly strengtliening  properties,  to  state  tluit  his  death 
■was  materially  hastened  by  being  overturned  -wlicn 
driving  in  his  chariot.  He  was  close  upon  sixty,  had 
long  been  blind  from  cataracts  in  his  eyes,  and  as  he 
was  no  longer  citiier  useful  or  ornamental  to  the  Avorld 
in  general,  he  could  perhaps  be  spared.  He  died  soon 
after  this  accident  in  Januar}^  1729.  He  had  the 
sense  to  die  at  a  time  when  Westminster  Abbey, 
being  regarded  as  a  mausoleum,  was  open  to  receive 
the  corpse  of  any  one  wlio  had  a  little  distinguished 
himself,  and  even  of  some  who  had  no  distinction 
Avhatover.  He  was  buried  there  with  great  pomj), 
and  Iiis  dear  duchess  set  up  his  monument.  So  murh 
for  his  body.  Wliat  l)ecame  of  the  soul  of  a  disso- 
lute, vain,  witty,  and  unprincipled  man,  is  no  con- 
cern of  ours.  Requiescat  in  pace,  if  there  is  any 
peace  for  those  who  are  buried  in  Westminster 
Abbey. 


BEAU  NASH. 

There  is  notliing  new  under  the  sun,  said  Walpole, 
by  way  of  a  very  original  remark.  "  No,"  whispered 
George  Selwyn,  "nor  under  the  grandson,  either." 

Mankind,  as  a  body,  has  proved  its  silliness  in  a 
tliousand  ways,  but  in  none,  perhaps,  so  ludicrously  as 
in  its  respect  for  a  man's  coat.  lie  is  not  always  a 
fool  that  knows  the  value  of  dress ;  and  some  of  the 
wisest  and  greatest  of  men  have  been  dandies  of  the 
first  water.  King  Solomon  was  one,  and  Alexander 
the  Great  was  another ;  but  there  never  was  a  more 
despotic  monarch,  nor  one  more  humbly  obeyed  by 
his  sul)jects,  than  the  King  of  Bath,  and  he  won  his 
dominions  by  the  cut  of  his  coat.  But  as  Hercules 
was  killed  by  a  dress-shirt,  so  the  beaux  of  the  modern 
Avorld  have  generally  ruined  themselves  by  their  ward- 
robes, and  brought  remorse  to  their  hearts,  or  contempt 
from  the  very  people  who  once  Avorshipped  them.  The 
husband  of  Mrs.  Damer,  who  appeared  in  a  new  suit 
twice  a-day,  and  whose  wardrobe  sold  for  c£15,000, 
blew  his  brains  out  at  a  coffee-house.  Beau  Fielding, 
Beau  Nash,  and  Beau  Brummell  all  expiated  their  con- 
temptible vanity  in  ol)scure  old  age  of  Avant  and 
misery.     As  the  world  is  full  of  folly,  the  history  of  a 

206 


l^irljartJ  (13cau)  ilasi). 


NASirs  inirnii'LACK  and  fatiiku.       207 

fool  is  as  i£oo(l  a  minor  to  lioM  iii)  to  it  as  anotluT ;  hut 
ill  tia-  t-iso  of  Beau  Nash  the  only  (|iiestion  is,  Mhother 
lie  or  his  su])jccts  Averc  the  greater  fools.  So  now  lor 
a  pictui-e  of  as  iiiiicli  folly  as  could  avoU  he  crnnimcd 
into  that  hot  hasin  in  the  Somersetshire  hills,  of  whic-h 
more  anon. 

It  is  a  linnl  thiii;r  for  a  man  not  to  have  had  a  father 
— harder  still,  like  poor  Savage,  to  liave  one  whom  he 
cannot  get  hold  of;  hut  ])erha])s  it  is  hardest  of  all, 
^vhen  you  have  a  father,  and  that  parent  a  very  re- 
spectable man,  t(j  be  told  that  you  never  had  one. 
This  Avas  Nash's  case,  and  his  father  Avas  so  little 
known,  and  so  seldom  mentioned,  that  the  splendid 
Beau  was  thoughi  ahiiost  to  have  dropped  from  the 
clouds,  ready  dressed  and  powdered.  He  dro])j)ed  in 
reality  from  anything  Itut  a  heavenly  place — the  ship- 
ping town  of  Swansea:  so  that  Wales  can  claim  the 
honor  of  having  proilueed  the  finest  beau  of  his  age. 

Ohl  Nash  was,  ])erhaps,  a  better  gentleman  than  his 
son;  but  with  I'ar  less  pretension.  He  was  a  jiartner 
in  a  glass-manufactory.  The  ]>eau,  in  after  years, 
often  got  rallied  on  the  inferiority  of  his  origin,  and 
the  least  obnoxious  answer  he  ever  made  was  to  Sarah 
of  Marlborough,  as  rude  a  creature  as  himself,  who 
told  him  he  was  ashamed  of  his  parentage.  "No, 
madam,"  rejjlied  the  King  of  Bath,  "  I  seldom  men- 
tion my  father  in  company,  not  because  I  have  any 
reason  to  be  ashamed  of  him,  but  liecause  he  has  some 
reason  to  be  ashamed  of  me/'      Nash,   though  a  fop 


208  OLD  NASH. 

and  a  fool,  Avas  not  a  bad-hearted  man,  as  we  shall  see. 
And  if  there  were  no  other  redeeming  point  in  his 
character,  it  is  a  great  deal  to  say  for  him,  that  in  an 
age  of  toadyism,  he  treated  rank  in  the  same  manner 
as  he  did  the  want  of  it,  and  did  his  best  to  remove 
the  odious  distinctions  which  pride  would  have  kept 
up  in  his  dominions.  In  fact,  King  Nash  may  be 
thanked  for  having,  by  his  energy  in  this  respect,  in- 
troduced into  society  the  first  elements  of  that  middle 
class  which  is  f)und  alone  in  Eno-land. 

Old  Nash — whose  wife,  by  the  way,  was  niece  to 
that  Colonel  Poyer  who  defended  Pembroke  Castle  in 
the  days  of  the  first  Revolution — was  one  of  those  silly 
men  who  want  to  make  gentlemen  of  their  sons,  rather 
than  good  men.  He  had  his  Avish.  His  son  Richard 
Avas  a  very  fine  gentleman,  no  doubt;  but,  unfortu- 
nately, the  same  circumstances  that  raised  him  to  that 
much  coveted  position,  also  made  him  a  gambler  and  a 
profligate.  Oh  !  foolish  papas,  Avhen  Avill  you  learn 
that  a  Christian  snob  is  worth  ten  thousand  irrelio-ious 
gentlemen?  When  Avill  you  be  content  to  bring  up 
your  boys  for  heaven  rather  than  for  the  brilliant 
Avorld  ?  Nash,  senior,  sent  his  son  first  to  school  and 
then  to  Oxford,  to  be  made  a  gentleman  of  Richard 
was  entered  at  Jesus  College,  the  haunt  of  the  Welsh. 
In  my  day,  this  quiet  little  place  was  celebrated  for 
little  more  than  the  humble  poverty  of  its  members, 
one-third  of  Avhom  rejoiced  in  the  cognomen  of  Jones. 
They  Avere  not  renoAvned  for  cleanliness,  and  it  Avas  a 


NASI  I    AT  OXFORD.  209 

standiiiLT  jnkc  willi  iis  silly  1)oys,  to  ask  :it  tlic  door  for 
'MliMt  Mr.  Jones  \\li(»  liinl  ;:  tooth-brush."  If  the  cul- 
lego  liail  tlir  same  character  then,  Nasli  must  have 
Jistonislicil  its  (Ions,  and  avc  are  7iot  surpi-ised  tliat  in 
his  first  year  tliey  thought  it  better  to  get  rid  of 
him. 

His  fatlier  couhl  ill  afTord  to  keep  him  at  Oxford, 
and  i'ondly  hoped  he  would  distinguish  himself.  "My 
boy  Dick  "  did  so  at  the  very  outset,  by  an  offer  of 
marriage. to  one  of  tho.se  charming  sylph.s  of  that  aca- 
demical city,  -who  are  always  on  the  look-out  for  cred- 
ulous undergraduates.  The  affair  was  discovered,  and 
j\I aster  llichard,  Avho  was  not  seventeen,  was  removed 
from  the  l^niversitv.'  Whether  lie  ever,  in  after-life, 
made  another  offer,  I  know  not,  liut  there  is  no  doid)t 
that  he  aiKjld  to  luive  been  married,  and  that  the  con- 
nections he  formed  in  later  years  were  far  more  dis- 
reputable than  his  first  love-affairs. 

The  Avorthy  glass  manufacturer,  having  fjiiled  to 
make  his  son  a  gentleman  in  one  way,  took  the  best 
step  to  make  him  a  blackguard,  and,  in  spite  of  the 
wild  inclinations  he  had  already  evinced,  bought  him 
a  commission  in  the  army.  Tn  this  new  positi(m  the 
incipient  Beau  did  everything  but  his  duty  ;  dressed 
superbly,  but  would  not  be  in  time  for  parade ;  sj)ent 
more  money  than  he  had,  but  did  not  ©bey  orders ; 
and  finally,  though   not  expelled  from   the   army,  he 

'  \\':inu"r  ("History  of  I5atli,"  p.  36G)  says,  "Nash  was  removed 
from  OxI'dnl  liy  liis  friends." 
Vol.  1.— 1 1 


210  SHIFTING   FOR  HIMSELF. 

found  it  convenient  to  sell  his  commission,  and  return 
home,  after  spending  the  proceeds. 

Papa  was  now  disgusted,  and  sent  the  young  Hope- 
less to  shift  for  himself.  What  couhl  a  well-disposed, 
handsome  youth  do  to  keep  body  and,  not  soul,  but 
clothes  together?  He  had  but  one  talent,  and  that 
was  for  dress.  Alas,  for  our  degenerate  days  !  When 
we  are  pitched  upon  our  own  bottoms,  we  must  work  ; 
and  that  is  a  highly  ungentlemanly  thing  to  do.  But 
in  the  beginning  of  the  last  century,  such  a  degrading 
resource  was  quite  unnecessary.  There  were  always 
at  hand  plenty  of  establishments  where  a  youth  could 
obtain  the  necessary  funds  to  pay  his  tailor,  if  fortune 
favored  him  ;  and  if  not,  he  could  follow  the  fashion 
of  the  day,  and  take  to  what  the  Japanese  call  "  the 
Happy  Despatch."  Nash  probably  suspected  that  he 
had  no  brains  to  blow  out,  and  he  determined  the  more 
resolutely  to  made  fortune  his  mistress.  He  went  to 
the  gaming-table,  and  turned  his  one  guinea  into  ten, 
and  his  ten  into  a  hundred,  and  was  soon  blazing 
about  in  gold  lace  and  a  new  sword,  the  very  delight 
of  dandies. 

He  had  entered  his  name,  by  way  of  excuse,  at  the 
Temple,  and  Ave  can  quite  believe  that  he  ate  all  the 
requisite  dinners,  though  it  is  not  so  certain  that  he 
paid  for  them.  He  soon  found  that  a  fine  coat  is  not 
so  very  far  beneath  a  goo<l  brain  in  worldly  estimation, 
and  when,  on  the  accession  of  William  the  Third,  the 
Templars,  according  to  the  old  custom,  gave  his  Majes- 


OFFEIl  OF   KNIGHTIIOor).  211 

ty  a  baiKiuot,  Nash,  as  a  proniisiii"^  lloaii,  uas  selected 
to  iiiaiiagc  the  establishiiieiit.  It  was  liis  first  experi- 
ence of*  the  duties  of  an  M.  (j.,  and  he  eondncted  him- 
self so  al)ly  on  this  occasion  that  the  kin_ii  even  oft'ered 
to  make  a  kni^lit  of  him.  Probably  Master  Richard 
thoii;j;ht  of  iiis  eni])ty  i)urse.  for  he  replied  with  some 
of  that  assurance  Avhich  afterwards  stood  him  in  such 
good  stead,  "Please  your  Majesty,  if  you  intend  to 
make  me  a  knight,  I  "wish  I  may  be  one  of  your  poor 
knights  of  Windsor,  and  then  I  shall  have  a  fortune, 
at  least  able  to  support  my  title/'  William  did  not  see 
the  force  of  this  argument,  and  Mr.  Nash  remained 
Mr.  Nash  till  the  day  of  his  death.  lie  had  another 
chance  of  the  title,  however,  in  days  when  he  could 
have  better  maintained  it,  but  again  ho  refused,  (^ueen 
Anne  once  asked  him  Avhv  he  declined  knin;hthood. 
He  i-eplied  :  "  There  is  Sir  William  Read,  the  mounte- 
bank, who  has  just  been  knighted,  and  I  should  have 
to  call  him  '  ])rotlier.'  "  The  honor  was,  in  fact,  rather 
11  cheap  one  in  those  days,  and  who  knows  whether  a 
man  who  had  done  such  signal  service  to  his  country 
did  not  look  forward  to  a  peerage  ?  Worse  men  than 
even  Beau  Nash  have  had  it. 

Well,  Nash  could  afford  to  defy  royalty,  for  he  Avas 
to  be  himself  a  numarch  of  all  he  surveyed,  and  a 
good  deal  more;  but  before  we  follow  him  to  Batl;, 
let  us  give  the  devil  his  due — which,  by  the  way,  he 
generally  gets — and  tell  a  pair  of  tales  in  the  Beau's 
favor. 


212  NASH'S  GENEROSITY. 

Imprimis,  his  accounts  at  the  Temple  -were  £10 
deficient.  Now  I  don't  mean  tliat  Nash  Avas  not  as 
gi'eat  a  liar  as  most  of  liis  craft,  l»ut  the  truth  of  this 
tale  rests  on  the  authority  of  "  The  Spectator,"  though 
Nash  took  delight  in  repeating  it. 

"  Come  hither,  young  man,"  said  the  Benchers, 
coolly:   "  whereunto  this  deficit?" 

"  Pri'thee,  good  masters,"  quoth  Nash,  "  that  XIO 
was  spent  on  making  a  man  happy." 

"  A  man  happy,  young  sir  :   pri'thee  explain." 

"  Odds  donners,"  quoth  Nnsh,  "  the  fellow  said  in 
mv  hearing  that  his  wife  and  bairns  Avere  starvino-, 
and  £10  would  make  him  tlie  happiest  man  sub  sole, 
and  on  sucli  an  occasion  as  his  Majesty's  accession, 
could  I  refuse  it   him  ?" 

Nash  Avas,  proverljially,  more  generous  than  just. 
lie  Avonld  not  pay  a  debt  if  he  could  lu'lp  it,  but 
Avould  give  the  very  amount  to  the  first  friend  tluit 
begged  it.  Tliere  was  mucli  ostentation  in  this,  l)ut 
then  my  friend  Nash  teas  ostentatious.  One  friend 
bothered  him  day  and  night  for  <£20  that  was  OAving 
to  liim,  and  he  could  not  get  it.  KnoAving  his  debtor's 
character,  lie  hit,  at  last,  on  a  happy  expedient,  and 
sent  a  friend  to  horro/v  the  money,  "  to  reliev^c  his 
urgent  necessities."  Out  came  the  bank-note,  before 
the  story  of  distress  Avas  finished.  The  friend  carried 
it  to  the  credit(n%  and  wlien  tlie  latter  again  met  Nash 
lu^  ought  to  liaA'e  made  liim  a  pretty  conq)rniient  on 
his  honesty. 


DUlN(i    I'KNANC  !■:   AT    V()KI<:.  lilo 

rt.'rii;i|)S  tlio  King  of  B;itli  would  not  Ii;ive  tolerated 
in  any  one  else  the  juvenile  frolics  he  delighted  in 
ai'ler  years  to  relate  of  his  own  early  days.  AVlicn 
at  a  loss  for  cash,  he  woiilil  do  anything,  but  work, 
for  a  fifty  pound  note,  and  having,  in  one  of  his  trips, 
lost  all  his  money  at  York,  the  Beau  undertook  to 
"do  penance"  at  the  minster  door  for  that  sum.  lie 
accordingly  ai'rayed  himself — not  in  sackcloth  and 
ashes — hut  in  an  ahlc-lxxlicd  Maiiket,  and  iiothiiig 
else,  and  took  his  stand  at  the  porch,  just  at  the  hour 
■when  the  dean  would  he  jzoiii";  in  to  read  service. 
"  lie,  ho,"  cried  that  dignitary,  who  knew  him, 
"  ]\Ir.  Nash  in  masijuerade  ?" — "Only  a  Yorkshire 
penance,  INIr.  Dean,"  quoth  the  reprobate;  "for 
keeping  l)ad  company,  too,"  pointing  therewith  to 
the  friends  who  had  come  to  see  the  sport. 

This  might  be  tolerated,  but  when  in  the  ei<xhtecnth 

CD  O 

century  a  young  man  emulates  the  hardiness  of  Godiva, 
without  her  merciful  heart,  we  may  not  think  (juitc  so 
well  of  liiui.  Mr.  Richard  Nash,  lieau  Extraordinary 
to  the  Kin<i;dom  of  Bath,  once  rode  throuirh  a  villa<ic 
ill  that  costuine  (if  wliich  even  our  fii"st  parent  Avas 
rather  ashamed,  an  1  that,  too,  on  the  back  of  a  cow  I 
The  wager  was,  I  believe,  considerable.  A  young  Eng- 
lishman did  something  more  respectable,  yet  (j[uite 
as  extraordinary,  at  Paris,  not  a  hundred  years  airo, 
foi-  a  small  lict.  lie  was  one  of  the  sloutcst,  thickest- 
built  men  possible,  \  ct  Iicing  but  eighteen,  had  iieilher 
whisker   nor  mouslaelie   to  masciilale   his  clear  En-dish 


214  DAYS  OP^  FOLLY. 

complexion.  At  the  Maison  Doree  one  night  he  of- 
fered to  ride  in  the  Champs  Elysees  in  a  lady's  habit, 
and  not  be  mistaken  for  a  man.  A  friend  undertook 
to  dress  him,  and  went  all  over  Paris  to  h're  a  habit 
that  would  fit  his  round  figure.  It  was  hopeless  for  a 
time,  but  at  last  a  good-sized  body  Avas  found,  and 
added  thereto,  an  ample  skirt.  F^lix  dressed  his  hair 
with  mainte  plats  and  a  net.  He  looked  perfect,  but 
in  coming  out  of  tlie  hairdresser's  to  get  into  his  fly, 
unconsciously  pulled  up  his  skirt  and  displayed  a 
sturdy  pair  of  well-trousered  legs.  A  crowd — there 
is  always  a  ready  crowd  in  Paris — was  Avaitinrr,  and 
the  laugh  was  general.  This  hero  reached  the  horse- 
dealer's — "mounted,"  and  rode  down  tlie  Champs. 
"A  yery  fine  woman  that,"  said  a  Frenchman  in 
tiic  promenade,  "  ])ut  what  a  back  she  has!"  It 
was  in  the  I'cturn  bet  to  this  that  a  now  well-known 
diph)mat  droye  a  goat-cliaise  and  six  down  the  same 
fashionable  resort,  witli  a  monkey,  dressed  as  a  foot- 
man, in  tlie  ]>ack  scat.  The  days  of  fully  did  not, 
apparently,  end  with   Beau  Nash. 

There  is  a  long  lacuna  in  the  history  of  this  wortliy's 
life,  whieli  may  have  Itcon  filled  np  by  a  residence  in  a 
spunging-house,  or  by  a  tcm])(>rary  appointment  as 
billiard-marker;  but  the  heroic  l)e;ui  accounted  for 
his  disappearance  at  this  time  in  a  iniicli  more  romantic 
manner.  lie  used  to  relate  (bat  be  was  once  asked  to 
dinner  on  board  of"  a  man-ol-wai-  iiitd<'r  ordei's  for  the 
Mediterraiicjiii,    and    tli.it    siu-li    was    the    alVcdioii    tlic 


A    VEKY   KOM ANTIC  STORY.  215 

olliccr.s  ciitortainod  for  liini,  that,  haviii;f  made  liiiii 
ilniiik — IK)  (liiHcult  matter — they  weighed  anchor,  set 
sail,  and  carried  the  successor  of  Kin<^  Bhidiid  aAvay 
to  the  wars.  Having  gone  so  far,  Nash  was  not  tlic 
man  to  neglect  an  o])j>ortiinity  for  imaginary  vahjr. 
lie  therefore  continued  to  relate,  that,  in  the  apocry- 
phal vessel,  he  was  once  engaged  in  a  yet  more  apocry- 
phal encounter,  and  wounded  in  the  leg.  1'his  was  a 
little  too  much  for  the  good  Bathoniaus  to  helieve,  hut 
Nash  silenced  their  douhts.  On  cne  occasion,  a  lady 
who  was  present  Avhen  he  was  telling  this  story,  ex- 
pressed her  incredulity. 

"  I  protest,  madam,"  cried  the  Beau,  lifting  his  leg 
up,  "•  it  is  true,  and  if  I  cannot  be  believed,  your  lady- 
ship ma}',  if  you  please,  receive  further  information  and 
feel  the  hall  in  mv  leg." 

Wherever  Nash  may  have  passed  the  intervening 
years,  may  be  an  interesting  speculation  for  a  German 
professor,  but  is  of  little  moment  to  us.  We  find  him 
again,  at  the  age  of  tliirty,  taking  first  steps  towards 
the  complete  subjugation  of  the  kingdom  he  afterwards 
ruled. 

There  is,  among  the  hills  of  Somersetshire,  a  hui;c 
basin  formed  by  thi'  river  Avon,  and  eonveiiiently 
supplied  with  a  natural  gush  of  hot  water,  whieh  can 
be  turned  on  at  any  time  for  the  cleansing  of  diseased 
bodies.  This  hollow  presents  many  curious  anomalies; 
thoufT-h  souo-ht  for  centuries  for  the  sake  of  health,  it 
is  one   of  the  most   unhealthily-situated  [»laees   in    tiie 


216  BATH. 

kingdom ;  hero  the  body  and  the  pocket  are  alike 
cleaned  out,  but  the  spot  itself  has  been  noted  for  its 
dirtiness  since  the  days  of  King  Bladud's  wise  pio-s ; 
here,  again,  the  diseased  flesh  used  to  be  healed,  but 
the  healthy  soul  within  it  speedily  besickened  ;  you 
came  to  cure  gout  and  rheumatism,  and  caught  in  ex- 
change dice-fever. 

The  mention  of  those  pigs  reminds  me  that  it  would 
be  a  shameful  omission  to  speak  of  this  city  without 
giving  the  story  of  that  apocryphal  British  monarch, 
King  Bladud.  But  let  me  be  the  one  exception  ;  let 
me  respect  the  good  sense  of  the  reader,  and  not  insult 
him  by  supposing  him  capable  of  believing  a  mythic 
jumble  of  kings  and  pigs  and  dirty  marshes,  which  he 
will,  if  he  cares  to,  find  at  full  length  in  any  "Bath 
Guide  " — price  sixpence. 

But  Avhatever  be  the  case  with  respect  to  the  Celtic 
sovereign,  there  is,  I  presume,  no  doubt,  that  the 
Romans  were  liere,  and  pro])ably  the  centurions  and 
tribunes  cast  the  aJca  in  some  pristine  assemblv-ronm, 
or  wagged  their  plumes  in  some  Avell-built  Pump-room, 
with  as  much  spirit  of  fashion  as  the  fu]l-))ottonied-wi<T 
ex(iuisites  in  the  reign  of  King  Nash.  At  any  rate 
Bath  has  been  in  almost  every  age  a  common  centre 
for  health-seekers  and  gamesters — two  antipodal  races 
wlin  always  flock  together — and  if  it  has  from  time  to 
time  (h'cliiied,  it  has  only  been  for  a  ])eriod.  Saxon 
churls  and  Norman  lords  were  too  sturdv  to  catch 
iiiiicli    rlicnmatic   gout  ;   ciiisadcrs   had  better  tilings  to 


SICKNESS  AND  <  1  \I1JZAT1(JN.  217 

think  of  than  their  ima<rinjiry  aihncnts ;  good  health 
was  in  fUshidii  lunler  IMantagenets  and  Tudors ;  doc- 
tors were  not  believed  in  ;  even  empirics  had  to  praise 
their  wares  with  much  wit,  and  Morrison  himself  must 
have  mounted  a  hank  and  dressed  in  Astleyian  cos- 
tume in  order  to  find  a  cusiouier  ;  sack  and  small-beer 
"vverc  hannless  when  homes  were  not  comfortable  enough 
to  keep  earl  or  chui'l  by  the  fireside,  and  "  out-of- 
doors "  was  the  j)roj)er  drawing-room  for  a  man:  in 
short,  sickness  came  in  with  civilization,  indisposition 
with  inniioral  habits,  fevers  with  fine  gentlemanliness, 
gout  with  greediness,  and  valetudinarianism — there  is 
no  Anglo-Saxon  word  lor  that — with  Avhat  we  falsely 
call  refinement.  So,  whatever  Bath  may  have  been  to 
]i;niipered  Romans,  who  over-ate  themselves,  it  had 
little  importance  to  the  stout,  healthy  middle  ages,  and 
it  was  not  till  the  reign  of  Charles  II.  that  it  began  to 
hxik  up.  Doctors  and  touters — the  two  were  often  one 
in  those  days — thronged  there,  and  fools  were  found  in 
l)lenty  to  follow  them.  At  last  the  blest  countenance 
of  i)ortlv  Anne  smiled  on  the  piu  stves  of  Kin"' 
Bladud.  In  ITOo  she  went  to  liath,  and  from  that 
time ''people  of  distinction  "  flocked  there.  The  as- 
semblage was  not  perhaps  very  brilliant  or  very  refined. 
Tile  visitors  danced  on  the  green,  and  played  privately 
at  hazard.  .\  few  sh;irpers  found  their  way  down 
from  London;  and  at  last  the  Duke  of  Beaufort  in- 
stiliiicd  Mil  M.C.  in  the  person  of  Captain  Webster — 
Naslis  predecessor — whose  main  act  of  glorv   was  in 


218  NASH   DESCENDS   UPON   BATH. 

setting  up  gambling  as  a  public  amusement.  It  re- 
mained for  Nash  to  make  the  place  what  it  afterwards 
was,  when  Chesterfield  could  lounge  in  the  Pump-room 
and  take  snuff  with  the  Beau ;  Avhen  Sarah  of  Marl- 
borough, Lord  and  Lady  Ilervey,  tlie  Duke  of  Whar- 
ton, Congrev'e,  and  all  the  little-great  of  the  day 
thronged  thither  rather  to  kill  time  with  less  ceremony 
than  in  London,  than  to  cure  complaints  more  or  less 
imaginary. 

The  doctors  were  only  less  numerous  than  the 
sharpers ;  the  place  was  still  uncivilized ;  the  com- 
pany smoked  and  lounged  without  etiquette,  and 
played  Avithout  honor :  the  place  itself  lacked  all 
comfort,  all  elegance,  and  all  cleanliness. 

Upon  this  delightful  place  the  avatar  of  the  God 
of  Etiquette,  pcrsonifio<l  in  INIr.  Richard  Nash,  de- 
scended somewhere  about  the  year  1705,  for  the  pur- 
pose of  regenerating  the  barbarians.  He  alighted 
just  at  the  moment  that  one  of  tlie  doctors  we  have 
alluded  to,  in  a  fit  of  <lisgust  at  some  slight  on  tlie 
part  of  the  town,  was  threatening  to  destroy  its  repu- 
tation, (n-,  as  he  politely  expressed  it,  "  to  throw  a  toad 
into  the  spring."  Q^hc  T>atlionians  were  alarmed  and 
in  consternation,  Avlien  young  Nash,  who  must  have 
already  distinguished  liiinsdf  as  a  macaroni,  -stepped 
forward  and  offered  to  i-ender  the  aiigr}^  physician 
impotent.  "  We'll  cliarni  Jiis  toad  out  again  with 
music,"  (piotb  he.  He  e\idciitly  thought  very  little 
of  tlie  watering-place,  after   liis  town   experiences,  and 


KING   OF  BATH.  21!J 

prepared  to  treat  it  accordingly.  He  got  up  a  Imiid 
ill  ilic  riiinp-rooiii.  l»r(iii;j;lit  tliiilier  in  tliis  manner  the 
liealtliv  as  well  as  the  siek,  and  soon  raised  the  renown 
of  Bath  as  a  resort  for  gaycty  as  well  as  for  mineral 
^vaters.  In  a  word,  he  displayed  a  surprising  talent 
for  setting  everything  and  everybody  to  rights,  and 
was,  therefore,  soon  elected,  by  tacit  voting,  the  King 
of  P.ntli. 

He  rapidly  proveil  his  (jualifications  for  the  position. 
First  he  secuicd  his  Orphean  harmony  by  collecting  a 
band-subscription,  which  gave  two  guineas  a-piece  to 
six  performers;  then  he  engaged  an  official  pumper 
for  the  Pump-room  :  and  lastly,  finding  that  the  bathers 
still  gathered  iiiidci-  a  booth  to  drink  their  tea  and  talk 
their  scandal,  lie  induced  one  Harrison  to  build  assem- 
bly-rooms, guaranteeing  him  three  guineas  a  week  to  be 
raised  by  subscription. 

All  this  demanded  a  vast  amount  of  impudence  on 
Mr.  Na.sh"s  part,  aiid  this  ho  possessed  to  a  liberal 
extent.  The  sul)scriptions  flowed  in  regularly,  and 
Nash  felt  his  jiower  increase  with  the  responsibility. 
So,  then,  our  minor  monarch  resolved  to  be  despotic, 
and  in  a  short  time  laid  down  laws  for  the  guests, 
which  they  obeyed  most  obse([uiously.  Nash  had 
not  much  wit,  though  a  great  deal  of  assurance,  but 
these  laws  were  his  chef  doeuvre.  Witness  some  of 
tlicm  :  — 

1.  "That  a  visit  of  ceremony  at  first  coming  and 
another  at   going  away,  are  all  that   are  ex[)ected  or 


220  NASH'S  CHEF   DCEUVRE. 

desired  l)y  ladies  of  quality  and  fashion — except  ini- 
jiertinents. 

4.  "  That  no  person  takes  it  ill  that  any  one  goes  to 
another's  play  or  breakfast,  and  not  theirs — except 
captious  nature. 

5.  "  That  no  gentleman  give  his  ticket  for  the  halls 
to  any  but  gentlewomen.  N.  B. — Unless  he  has  none 
of  his  ac(|uaintance. 

G.  "  That  gentlemen  croAvding  before  the  ladies  at 
the  ball,  show  ill  manners  ;  and  that  none  do  so  for 
the  future — except  such  as  respect  nobody  but  them- 
selves. 

0.  "  That  the  younger  ladies  take  notice  hoAV  many 
eyes  observe  them.  N.  B. — This  does  not  extend  to 
the  Have-at-alh. 

10.  ''  That  all  wliispcrers  of  lies  and  scandal  bo 
taken  for  their  authors." 

Really  this  law  of  Nash's  must  have  been  repealed 
some  time  or  other  at  Bath.  Still  more  that  wliich 
follows : — 

11.  "  That  repeaters  of  such  lies  and  scandal  ])e 
shunned  by  all  company — except  such  as  have  been 
guilty  of  the  same  crime." 

There  is  a  certain  amount  of  satire  in  these  Lycurgus 
statutes  tliat  shows  Nash  in  the  light  of  an  ol)server  of 
society;  l)ut,  (i[uerv,  whether  any  frequenter  of  B;ith 
would  not  have  devised  as  good? 

Tbe  dances  of  tliose  days  must  bave  l)een  sonu-wliat 
tcilious.      Tbcv    ItcLjau    witb    a    series   <if   minuets,    in 


TIIK   I'.AIJ..  221 

uliicli.  of  conrso,  onlv  unc  cdiiiilc  daiiroil  ;if  ;i  time, 
l\\v  iiKtst  (listiii'Mii^licil  i>|iriiiiitr  tlie  l>all.  Tlicsc 
soliMiiii  |»crf"()nn;nic('s  la^tcil  altoiit  two  lumrs,  ami 
\vc  can  cnsilv  iiiiaLriiic  that  tlu'  rest  of  the  conijiaiiy 
■\V(M-('  (Icliiilitcd  wlicii  tlic  coiiiitry  (lances.  Avliicli  iii- 
cliulcil  cvcvvliinly,  Itoj^an.  The  hall  opened  at  six  ; 
the  country  dances  be<:fan  at  eight :  at  nine  there 
was  a  hdl  for  the  gentlemen  to  offer  their  ])artners 
tea;  in  tluc  course  the  dances  were  resumed,  and  at 
eleven  Nash  held  up  his  hand  to  the  musicians,  and 
under  no  circumstances  was  the  hall  allowed  to  con- 
tinue after  that  hour.  Nash  -well  knew  the  value 
of  earlv  hours  to  invalids,  and  he  Avouhl  not  destroy 
the  healinui;  reputation  of  Uatli  for  the  sake  of  a  little 
nioi'e  ])leasure.  On  one  occasion  tlie  Princess  Amelia 
implored  him  to  allow  one  dance  more.  The  despot  re- 
])li(Ml,  that  his  laws  wei-e  those  of  Tjycurgus,  and  could 
not  l)e  aliroixatcMl  fir  any  one.  liy  this  we  see  that 
the  M.  C.  was  ali-eady  an   autocrat  in  his  kinu-(loni. 

Nor  is  it  to  he  supposed  tliat  his  Majesty's  laws  were 
confined  to  such  merely  ])rofessional  arrangements. 
Not  a  ))it  of  it  :  in  a  \'ery  short  time  his  imjmdence 
gave  him  umlenied  riixht  of  interference  with  the 
coats  and  gowns,  the  habits  and  manners,  even  the 
(iaily  actions  of  his  subjects,  for  so  the  visitors  at 
l>ath  were  compelle(l  to  liecome.  Si parvis  compovcre 
magna  rccihif,  Ave  may  admit  tliat  the  rise  of  Nash  and 
that  of  Napoleon  Avere  owing  to  similar  causes.  The 
French   emperor  found  France  in  a  state  of  disorder, 


222        IMPROVEMENTS  IN   THE  PUMP-ROOM. 

AvLtli  which  sensible  people  were  growins;  more  and 
more  disgusted  ;  he  offered  to  restore  order  and  pro- 
priety ;  the  French  hailed  him,  and  gladly  submitted 
to  his  early  decrees;  then,  ^vhcn  he  had  got  them  into 
the  habit  of  obedience,  he  could  make  "what  laws  he 
liked,  and  use  his  power  without  fear  of  opposition. 
The  Bath  emperor  followed  the  same  course,  and  it 
mav  be  asked  wdiether  it  does  not  demand  as  o;reat 
an  amount  of  courage,  assurance,  perseverance,  and 
administrative  power  to  subdue  several  hundreds  of 
English  ladies  and  gentlemen  as  to  rise  supreme  above 
some  millions  of  French  republicans.  Yet  Nash  ex- 
perienced less  opposition  than  Napoleon  ;  Nash  reigned 
longer,  and  had  no  infernal  machine  prepared  to  bloAV 
him  up. 

Everylmdy  was  delighted  with  tlie  improvements  in 
the  Pump-room,  the  balls,  the  promenades,  the  chair- 
men— the  Boufie  ruffians  of  the  mimic  kingdom — 
whom  ho  reduced  to  submission,  and  therefore  nobody 
complained  when  Emperor  Nash  WTut  further,  and 
made  war  upon  the  ■white  aprons  of  the  ladies  and 
the  boots  of  the  gentlemen.  The  society  was  in  fact 
in  a  very  barbarous  condition  at  the  time,  and  people 
who  came  for  pleasure  liked  to  be  at  ease.  Thus 
ladies  lounged  into  the  balls  in  their  riding-hoods 
or  morninir  dresses,  centlemon  in  boots,  with  their 
pipes  in  their  mouths.  Such  atrocities  were  intol- 
erable to  the  late  frequenter  of  London  society,  and 
in  his  imperious  arrogance,    the   new   monarch   used 


A   PUELIC  BENEFACTOR.  223 

actually  to  imll  oil'  the  ^vllit('  a|ii-(in.s  of  ladies  ulio 
eiiti'Vcd  the  assc'iiil)ly-r()oiiis  Avitli  that  dc(j<«ii'  article, 
and  tliiow  tliciii  ii])(iii  tlic  bac-k  scats.  Tiike  tlic 
Fvciicli  ciM})cn)r,  again,  he  treated  high  and  Idw  in 
the  same  manner,  ami  when  the  Duchess  of  Queens- 
berry  appeared  in  an  ajtrou,  coolly  pulled  it  off",  and 
told  her  it  was  <jnlv  fit  lor  a  maid-servant.  Ilcr  grace 
made  no  resistance. 

The  men  -were  not  so  submissive ;  but  the  M.  C. 
turned  them  into  ridicule,  and  Avhenever  a  gentleman 
appeared  at  the  assembly-rooms  in  boots,  -would  walk 
up  to  him,  and  in  a  loud  voice  remark,  "Sir,  1  think 
you  have  forgot  your  horse."  To  complete  his 
triumph,  he  ))ut  the  offenders  into  a  song  called 
''  Trentinella's   Invitation   to  the  Assembly." 

"Conic,  one  jind  all, 
To  Hoyden  Hall, 

For  there's  the  assembly  this  night: 
None  hut  proud  fools 
Mind  niannei"s  and  rules; 

\Ve  Hoydens  do  decency  slight. 

"Come  trollops  and  slatterns, 
Cockt  hats  and  white  aprons; 

This  best  our  modesty  suits: 
For  why  should  not  we 
In  a  dress  be  as  free 

As  Hogs-Norton  squires  in  boots?" — 

and  as  this  was  not  enough,  got  up  a  puppet-show  of  a 
sufficient  coarseness  to  suit  the  taste  of  the  time,  in 
Avhich  the  practice  of  wearing  boots  was  satirized. 


224  CANES    vs.  SWORDS. 

His  next  onslauiilit  was  iii^on  that  of  carrvinfr 
swords ;  and  in  this  respect  Nash  hecanie  a  public 
benefiictor,  for  in  those  days,  though  Chesterfiekl  was 
the  writer  on  etiquette,  people  were  not  well-bred 
enough  to  keep  their  tempers,  and  rivals  for  a  lady's 
hand  at  a  minuet,  or  gamblers  who  disputed  over  their 
cards,  invariably  settled  the  matter  by  an  option 
between  suicide  or  murder  under  the  polite  name 
of  duel.  The  INI.  C.  wisely  saw  that  these  affairs 
would  l)ving  Bath  in  bad  repute,  and  determined  to 
supplant  the  rapier  by  the  less  dangerous  cane.  In 
this  he  was  for  a  long  time  opposed,  until  a  notorious 
torchlight  duel  between  two  gamblers,  of  whom  one 
was  run  through  the  body,  and  the  other,  to  show  his 
contrition,  turned  Quaker,  brought  his  opponents  to  a 
sense  of  the  danger  of  a  weapon  always  at  hand ;  and 
henceforth  the  sword  was  abolished. 

These  points  gained,  the  autocrat  laid  down  rules  for 
the  employment  of  the  visitors'  time,  and  these,  from 
setting  the  fashion  to  some,  soon  became  a  law  to  all. 
The  first  thino;  to  be  done  was,  sensibly  enousjh,  the 
osfeusibic  object  of  their  residence  in  Bath,  the  use  of 
the  batlis.  At  an  early  hour  four  lusty  chairmen 
waited  on  every  lady  to  carry  her,  wrapped  in  flan- 
nels, in 

"A  little  Mack  box,  just  tlie  size  of  a  coffin," 

to  one  of  the  five  baths.     Here,  on  enterinur,  sm  attend- 
ant  placed  beside  her  a  floating  tray,  on  whicli  were 


LIFE  AT   DATll   IN   NASIIS  TIME.  225 

set  lior  handkercliief,  bouquet,  iiml  snt(Jf'-box,  fov  our 
grcat-great-grtiii(linotlicrs  did  takr  siiuil';  ami  here  she 
iound  lu'i-  friends  in  the  same  bath  of"  naturally  hot 
water.  It  was,  of  course,  a  reunion  for  society  on  the 
])lea  of  healtli  ;  l)ut  the  eaily  hours  and  the  exercise 
secured  the  latter,  whatever  the  baths  may  have  done. 
A  walk  in  the  Punij)-r()(»ni,  to  the  music  of  a  tolerable 
band,  was  the  next  nu'asure ;  and  there,  of  course,  the 
gentlemen  mingled  with  the  ladies.  A  coffee-house 
was  ready  to  receive  those  of  either  sex  ;  for  that  was 
a  time  when  madanie  and  miss  lived  a  great  deal  in 
public,  and  English  people  Avere  not  ashamed  of  eating 
their  breakfast  in  public  company.  These  breakfasts 
were  often  enlivened  by  concerts  paid  for  by  the  rich 
and  enjoyed  by  all. 

Supposing  the  peacocks  now  to  be  dressed  out  and 
to  have  their  tails  spread  to  the  l)est  advantage,  we 
next  find  -^oiiie  in  the  ])ublie  promenades,  others  in  the 
reading-rooms,  the  ladies  having  their  clubs  as  well  as 
the  men ;  others  riding ;  others,  perchance,  already 
gambling.  INIankind  and  womankind  then  dined  at 
a  reasonable  hour,  and  the  evening's  amusements 
began  early.  Nash  insisted  on  this,  knowing  the 
value  of  health  to  those,  and  they  Avere  many  at 
that  time,  who  sought  Bath  on  its  account.  The 
balls  began  at  six,  and  took  place  every  Tuesday 
iviul  Friday,  private  balls  filling  up  the  vacant  nights. 
About  the  commencement  of  his  reign,  a  theatre  was 
built,   and  whatever  it   may  have  been,  it  afterwards 

Vol.    I.— 15 


226     COMPACT  WITH  THE   DUKE  OF  BEAUFOET. 

became  celebrated  as  the  nursery  of  the  London  stage, 
and  now,  0  tempo  2)assnto  !  is  ahnost  abandoned.  It 
is  needless  to  add  that  the  o-amincr-tables  were  throno-ed 
in  the  evenings. 

It  was  at  them  that  Nash  made  the  money  which 
sufficed  to  keep  up  his  state,  which  was  vulgarly  regal. 
He  drove  about  in  a  chariot,  flaming  with  heraldry, 
and  drawn  by  six  grays,  with  outriders,  running  foot- 
men, and  all  the  appendages  which  made  an  impression 
on  the  vul2;ar  minds  of  the  visitors  of  his  kingdom. 
His  dress  was  magnificent ;  his  gold  lace  unlimited, 
his  coats  ever  new  ;  his  hat  alone  was  always  of  the 
same  color — ivhlte  ;  and  as  the  emperor  Alexander 
was  distinguished  by  his  purple  tunic  and  Brummell 
by  his  bow.  Emperor  Nash  was  known  all  England 
over  by  his  white  hat. 

It  is  due  to  the  King  of  Bath  to  say  that,  however 
much  he  gained,  he  always  played  fair.  He  even 
patronized  young  players,  and  after  fleecing  them, 
kindly  advised  them  to  play  no  more.  When  he 
found  a  man  fixed  upon  ruining  himself,  he  <lid  his 
l)est  to  keep  him  from  that  suicidal  act.  This  was 
tlie  case  witli  a  young  Oxonian,  to  whom  he  had 
lost  money,  and  wliom  lie  invited  to  su])per,  in  order 
to  give  him  liis  parnital  advice.  Tlie  fool  would  not 
take  the  Beau's  counsel  and  "came  to  grief."  Even 
noblemen  sought  his  protection.  The  Puke  of  Beau- 
fort entered  on  a  compact  witli  him  to  save  his  purse, 
if  not  his  soul.      He  agreed  to  pay  Nash  ten  thousand 


GAMING   AT  BATH.  227 

guineas,  wliciicvcr  lie  lost  the  same  amount  at  a  sitting. 
It  was  a  comfortable  treaty  for  our  Beau,  who  accord- 
ingly watched  his  grace.  Yet  it  must  be  said,  to 
Nash's  honor,  that  he  once  saved  him  from  losing 
clrNcn  tlioiisaiid,  when  he  had  already  lost  eight, 
by  reminding  him  of  his  compact.  Such  was  play 
in  those  days  I  It  is  said  that  the  duke  had  after- 
wards to  pay  the  fine,  from  losing  the  stipulated  sum 
at  Newmarket. 

He  displayeil  as  niiicli  honesty  with  the  young  Lord 
Townshend,  who  lost  him  liis  whole  fortune,  his  estate, 
and  even  his  carria<j;c  and  horses — what  madmen  are 
gamblers  I — and  actually  cancelled  the  whole  debt,  on 
condition  my  lord  should  pay  him  .£5000  whenever  he 
chose  to  claim  it.  To  Nash's  honor  it  nuist  be  said 
that  he  never  came  down  upon  the  nobleman  during 
his  life.  He  claimed  the  sum  from  his  executors,  wlio 
paid  it. — "  Honorable  to  both  parties." 

]]ut  an  end  was  put  to  the  gaming  at  Bath  and 
everywhere  else — crccpt  in  a  royal  palace^  and  Nash 
swore  that,  as  he  was  a  king,  Batli  came  undrr  the 
head  of  the  exception — by  an  act  of  Parliament.  Of 
course  Nash  and  the  sharpers  who  frequented  Bath — 
and  their  name  was  Legion — found  means  to  evade  this 
law  for  a  time,  bv  the  invention  of  new  games.  But 
this  could  not  last,  and  the  Beau's  fortune  went  with 
the  death  of  the  dice. 

Still,  however,  the  very  prohibition  increased  the 
zest  for  play  for  a  time,  and  Nash  soon  discovered  that 


228  THE  FOP'S   VANITY. 

a  private  table  was  more  comfortable  than  a  public  one. 
He  entered  into  an  arranfjement  with  an  old  woman  at 
Bath,  in  virtue  of  which   he  was   to  receive  a  fourth 
share  of  the  profits.     This  was  probably  not  the  only 
"  hell  "-keeping  transaction  of  his  life,  and  he  had  once 
before  quashed  an  action  against  a  cheat  in  consider- 
ation of  a  handsome  bonus ;  and,  in  fact,  there  is  no 
saying  what  amount  of  dirty  work  Nash  would  not  have 
done  for  a  hundred  or  so,  especially  when  the  game  of 
the  table  was  shut  up  to  him.     Tlie  man  was  immensely 
fond  of  money  ;   he  liked  to  show  his  gold-laced  coat 
and  superb    new  Avaistcoat   in   tlie  Grove,  the  Abbey 
Ground,  and   Bond   Street,  and   to   be   known  as  Le 
Grand  Nash.     But,  on  the  other  hand,  he  did  not  love 
money  for  itself,  and  never  hoarded  it.     It  is,  indeed, 
something  to  Nash's  honor,  that  he   died  poor.     He 
delighted,  in  the  poverty  of  his  mind,  to  display  his 
great  thick-set  person  to  the  most  advantage ;  he  Avas 
as  vain  as  any  fop,  Avithout  the  affectation  of  that  cha- 
racter, for  he  was  always  blunt  and  free-spoken,  but, 
as  long  as  he  had  enough  to  satisfy  his  vanity,  he  cared 
nothing  for  mere  wealth.     He  had  generosity,  though 
he  neglected  the  precept  about  the  right  hand  and  the 
left,   and    showed    some    ostentation   in   his    charities. 
When  a  poor  ruined  fellow  nt  his  elbow  saw  him  Avin 
at   a  tliroAV  £200,  and  murmured  "  Hoav  happy  that 
would    make  me  I"   Nash    tossed    the    money  to  him, 
and  said.  ''  Go  and  be  happy  then."     Probably  the 
Avitless  beau  did  not  see  the  delicate  satire  implied  in 


ANiXDUTKS  OF   NASII.  229 

his  speech.  It  was  only  the  triumph  of  a  gamester. 
On  otlier  occasions  he  collected  subscriptions  for  poor 
curates,  and  so  forth,  in  the  same  spirit,  and  did  his 
best  towards  founding  an  hospital,  which  has  since 
proved  of  great  value  to  those  afflicted  with  rheumatic 
gout.  In  the  same  spirit,  though  himself  a  gamester, 
he  often  attempted  to  win  young  and  inexperienced 
boys,  who  came  to  toss  away  their  money  at  the  rooms, 
from  seeking  their  own  ruin  ;  and,  on  the  whole,  there 
was  some  g-oodness  of  heart  in  this  gold-laced  bear. 

That  he  was  a  bear  there  are  anecdotes  enough  to 
show,  and  whether  true  or  not,  they  sufficiently  prove 
what  the  reputation  of  the  man  must  have  been.  Thus, 
when  a  lady,  afflicted  with  a  curvature  of  the  spine, 
told  hiui  that  "  She  had  come  straujht  from  London 
that  day,"  Nash  replied  with  utter  heartlessness, 
"Then,  ma'am,  you've  been  damnably  Avarpt  on  the 
road."  The  lady  had  her  revenge,  however,  for  meet- 
inij  the  beau  one  dav  in  the  Grove,  as  she  toddled 
along  with  her  dog,  and  being  impudently  asked  by 
him  if  she  knew  the  name  of  Tobit's  dog,  she  answered 
quicklv,  "  Yes,  sir,  his  name  was  Nash,  and  a  most 
impudent  dog  he  was  too." 

It  is  due  to  Nash  to  state  that  he  made  many  at- 
tempts to  put  an  end  to  the  perpetual  system  of  scandal, 
Avhich  from  some  hidden  cause  seems  always  to  be  con- 
nected witli  luiiicial  springs;  but  as  he  did  not  banish 
i]iv  (lid  maids,  of  course  he  fail('(l.  ( ){'  tiie  voung  ladies 
and  their  reputation  he  took  a  kind  of  paternal  care, 


230  "MISS  SYLVIA." 

and  in  that  day  they  seem  to  have  needed  it,  for  even 
at  nineteen,  those  Avho  had  any  money  to  lose,  staked  it 
at  the  tahles  with  as  much  gusto  as  the  wrinkled,  puck- 
ered, greedy-eyed  ''single  woman,"  of  a  certain  or  un- 
certain age.  Nash  protected  and  cautioned  them,  and 
even  gave  them  the  advantage  of  his  own  unlimited 
experience.  Witness,  for  instance,  the  care  he  took 
of  "•  Miss  Sylvia,"  a  lovely  heiress  who  brought  her 
face  and  her  fortune  to  enslave  some  and  enrich  others 
of  the  louno-ers  of  Bath.  She  had  a  terrible  love  of 
hazard,  and  very  little  prudence,  so  that  Nash's  good 
offices  were  much  needed  in  the  case.  The  young  lady 
soon  became  the  standing  toast  at  all  the  clubs  and 
suppers,  and  lovers  of  her,  or  her  ducats,  crowded 
round  her ;  but  though  at  that  time  she  might  have 
made  a  brilliant  match,  she  chose,  as  young  women 
will  do,  to  fix  her  aifeetions  upon  one  of  the  Avorst  men 
in  Bath,  who,  naturally  enough,  did  not  return  them. 
When  this  individual,  as  a  climax  to  his  misadventures, 
was  clapt  into  prison,  the  devoted  young  creature  gave 
the  greater  part  of  her  fortune  in  order  to  pay  off  his 
debts,  and  fidling  into  disrepute  from  this  act  of  gener- 
osity, which  was,  of  course,  interpreted  after  a  woi-ldly 
fashion,  she  seems  to  have  lost  her  honor  with  her  fame, 
and  the  fnir  Sylvia  took  a  position  which  couhl  not  1)0 
creditable  to  her.  At  last  the  poor  girl,  weary  of 
slights,  and  overcome  with  shame,  took  her  silk  sash 
and  ]i;ing(Ml  herself.  The  terrible  event  made  a  nine 
liours" — /lot  nine  days' — sensation  in  B;itli,  whicli  was 


A  GENEROUS  ACT.  2.11 

too  busy  witli  mains  and  aces  to  care  about  the  fate  of 
one  Avhohail  lon^  sunk  out  of  its  circles. 

When  Xasli  reached  the  zenith  of  liis  power,  tlie 
aduhition  he  received  was  somewhat  (;f"  a  jiarody  on 
tlie  flattery  of  courtiers.  True,  he  liad  his  bards  from 
Grul)  Street  who  sani;  his  prai.ses,  and  he  had  letters 
to  show  from  Sarah  of  Marlborough  and  others  of  that 
calibre,  but  his  chief  worshippers  were  cooks,  musi- 
cians, and  even  imprisoned  highwaymen — one  of  whom 
disclosed  the  secrets  of  the  craft  to  him — who  wrote 
him  dedications,  letters,  poems,  and  what  not.  The 
good  city  of  Bath  set  up  liis  statue,  and  did  Newton 
and  Pope  ^  the  great  honor  of  playing  "  supporters  " 
to  him,  which  elicited  from  Chesterfield  some  well- 
known  lines : — 

"  This  stiitUL',  [)Iac'ed  the  busts  iK'twccn, 
Adds  to  the  satire  strength  ; 
AVisdoni  and  \\'it  ai\'  little  seen, 
But  Folly  at  full  length." 

Meanwhile  his  private  character  was  none  of  the 
best,  lie  had  in  earlv  life  had  one  attachment,  be- 
sides  that  unfortunate  afl[\iir  for  which  his  friends  had 
removed  liim  from  Oxford,  and  in  tlitit  had  behaved 
with  ";reat  majinanimitv.  The  voung  lady  had  hon- 
estly  told  him  that  he  had  a  rival;  the  Beau  sent  for 
him,  settled  on  her  a  fortune  equal  to  that  her  father 

'  A  full-leiigth  statue  of  Nash  was  placed  between  the  busts  of 
Newton  and  I 'ope. 


232  THE  SETTING  SUN. 

intended  for  her,  and  himself  presented  her  to  the 
favored  suitor.  Now,  however,  he  seems  to  have  given 
up  all  thoughts  of  matrimony,  and  gave  himself  up  to 
mistresses,  who  cared  more  for  his  gold  than  for  him- 
self. It  was  an  awkward  conclusion  to  Nash's  frener- 
ous  act  in  that  one  case,  that  before  a  year  had  passed, 
the  bride  ran  away  Avith  her  husband's  footman ;  yet, 
though  it  disgusted  him  with  ladies,  it  does  not  seem 
to  have  cured  him  of  his  attachment  to  the  sex  in 
general. 

In  the  height  of  his  glory  Nash  was  never  ashamed 
of  receiving  adulation.  He  was  as  fond  of  flattery  as 
Le  Grand  Monarque — and  he  paid  for  it  too — whether 
it  came  from  a  prince  or  a  chairman.  Every  day 
brought  him  some  fresh  meed  of  praise  in  prose  or 
verse,  and  Nash  was  always  delighted. 

But  this  sun  was  to  set  in  time.  His  fortune  Avent 
when  gaming  was  put  down,  for  he  had  no  other  means 
of  subsistence.  Yet  he  lived  on  :  he  had  not  the  good 
sense  to  die ;  and  he  reached  the  patriarchal  age  of 
eighty-seven.  In  his  old  age  he  was  not  only  garru- 
lous, but  bragging :  he  told  stories  of  his  exploits,  in 
which  he,  Mr.  Richard  Nash,  came  out  as  the  first 
swordsman,  swimmer,  leaper,  and  what  not.  But  by 
this  time  people  began  to  doubt  Mr.  Richard  Nash's 
long-bow,  and  the  yarns  he  spun  were  listened  to  with 
impatience.  He  grew  rude  and  testy  in  his  old  age; 
suspected  Quin,  the  actor,  who  was  living  at  Bath,  of 
an   intention   to  su))plant  him  ;  made  coarse,  imperti- 


A   I'ANWJYKIC.  233 

ncnt  repartees  to  the  visitors  at  that  city,  and  in  gen- 
eral raised  up  a  dislike  to  himself.  Yet  as  other  nion- 
arclis  have  had  tlicir  eulogists  in  sober  mind,  Nash  had 
his  in  one  of  the  most  depraved ;  and  Anstey,  the  low- 
iiiiiiilcd  author  of  "  The  New  Bath  Guide,"  panegy- 
rized liiiii  a  short  time  after  his  deatli  in  the  following 
verses : — 


"  Yet  here  no  confusion — no  tumult  is  known ; 
I'^air  order  and  lieauty  cstablisli  tlieir  llirone ; 
For  order,  and  lieauty,  and  just  rej^ulation, 
Support  all  the  works  of  this  ample  creation. 
For  tlii>!,  in  compassion,  to  mortals  below, 
The  gods,  their  peculiar  favor  to  show, 
iSent  Hermes  to  I'ath  in  the  sliape  of  a  beau: 
Tliat  grandson  of  Atlas  came  down  from  above 
To  bless  all  the  regions  of  ])leasure  and  love ; 
To  lead  the  fair  nymph  thro'  the  various  ma/e, 
Bright  beauty  to  marshal,  his  glory  and  praise; 
To  govern,  improve,  and  adorn  the  gay  scene, 
By  the  tJraces  instructed,  and  Cyprian  queen: 
As  when  in  a  garden  delightful  and  g:iy, 
Where  Flora  is  wont  all  her  charms  to  display, 
The  sweet  hyacinthus  with  pleasure  we  view 
Contend  with  narcissus  in  delicate  hue  ; 
The  gard'ner,  industrious,  trims  out  his  border, 
Puts  each  odoriferous  plant  iu  its  order; 
The  myrtle  he  ranges,  the  rose  and  the  lily, 
With  iris,  and  crocus,  and  daflii-ilown-ililly  ; 
Sweet  i)eas  and  sweet  orangi-s  all  he  disposes, 
At  ouce  to  regale  both  your  eyes  and  your  noses. 
I>ong  reign'd  the  great  Nash,  this  onmipotent  lord, 
Kespected  by  youth,  and  by  [larents  ador'd ; 


234  NASH'S  OLD  AGE. 

For  him  not  enough  at  a  ball  to  preside, 

The  unwary  and  beautiful  nymph  would  he  guide ; 

Oft  tell  her  a  tale,  how  the  credulous  maid 

By  man,  by  perfidious  man,  is  betrayed : 

Taught  Charity's  hand  to  relieve  the  distrest, 

While  tears  have  his  tender  compassion  exprest; 

But  alas !  lie  is  gone,  and  the  city  can  tell 

How  in  years  and  in  glory  lamented  he  fell. 

Him  mourn'd  all  the  Dryads  on  Claverton's  mount; 

Him  Avon  d^M'lor'd,  him  the  nym])h  of  the  foimt, 

The  crystalline  streams. 

Then  perish  his  picture — his  statue  decay — 

A  tribute  more  lasting  the  Muses  shall  pay. 

If  true,  what  philosophers  all  will  assure  us, 

AVho  dissent  from  tlie  doctrine  of  great  Ejiicurus, 

That  the  si)irit's  immortal   (as  poets  allow) : 

In  reward  of  his  labors,  his  virtue  and  pains, 

He  is  footing  it  now  in  the  Elysian  plains, 

Indulged,  as  a  token  of  Proserpine's  favor. 

To  preside  at  her  l)alls  in  a  cream-color'd  beaver. 

Then  peace  to  his  ashes — our  grief  be  sui)prest. 

Since  we  find  such  a  phoenix  has  sprung  from  his  nest; 

Kind  Heaven  has  sent  us  another  professor, 

Who  follows  the  steps  of  his  great  predecessor." 

The  end  of  the  Bath  Beau  was  somewhat  less 
traijical  than  that  of  his  London  successor — Brum- 
mell.  N.ish,  in  his  ohi  age  and  povert_y,  hung  about 
the  (dubs  and  supper-tables,  button-liohnl  youngsters, 
who  thought  him  a  bore,  spun  liis  long  yarns,  and  tried 
to  insist  on  obsolete  fasliions,  when  near  the  end  of  his 
life's  century. 

The  clergy  took  more  care  of  him  tlian  the  young- 
sters.    They   heard   that   Nash   was   an  octogenarian, 


HIS  FUNERAL.  235 

and  likely  to  die  in  his  sins,  and  resolved  to  do  tluir 
best  to  slii-i\c  Iiiiii.  Worthy  and  well-iiicaniiitr  men 
accordinj^ly  wrote  him  lonj^  letters,  in  Avhieh  there 
Avas  a  deal  of  waniin;:-,  and  tliere  was  nothing  which 
Nash  dreaded  so  iiiiu  li.  As  long  as  there  was  imme- 
diate fear  of  death,  he  was  pious  and  huniMc:  tlic 
moment  the  fear  IkhI  passeil,  he  was  jo\  ial  and  indif- 
ferent again.  His  especial  delight,  to  the  last,  seems 
to  have  been  swearing  against  the  doctors,  whom  he 
treated  like  the  individual  in  Anstey's  "Bath  Guide," 
shying  their  medicines  out  of  the  window  upon  their 
own  heads.  But  the  wary  old  Beckoner  called  him  in, 
in  due  time,  with  his  broken,  empty-chested  voice ;  and 
Nash  was  forced  to  obe3^  Death  claimed  him — and 
much  good  it  got  of  him — in  17<)1,  at  the  age  of 
eighty-seven:  there  are  few  beaux  wlio  lived  so  long. 
Thus  ended  a  life  of  wliich  tlu'  moral  lav,  so  to 
speak,  out  of  it.  The  worthies  of  Bath  Avere  true  to 
the  worshi[)  of  Folly,  Avhom  Anstey  so  Avell,  though 
indelicately,  describes  as  there  conceivino;  Fashion ; 
and  though  Nash,  old,  slovenly,  disrespected,  had  long 
ceased  to  be  either  beau  or  monarch,  treated  his  huge 
unlovely  corpse  with  the  honor  due  to  the  great — or 
little.  His  funeral  was  as  glorious  as  that  of  any 
hero,  and  for  more  sliowv^  though  much  less  solemn, 
tlian  tlie  1)ui'ial  of  Sir  John  Moore.  Perhaps  for  a 
bit  of  prose  flummery,  l)y  way  of  contrast  to  Wolfe's 
lines  on  tlie  latter  event,  there  is  little  to  iMjual  the 
account    in    a    contemporary    paper: — "Sorrow   sate 


236  HIS  CHAP.ACTERISTICS. 

upon  every  face,  and  even  children  lisped  that  their 
sovereign  was  no  more.  The  awfulness  of  the  solem- 
nity made  the  deepest  impression  on  the  minds  of  the 
distressed  inhabitants.  The  peasant  discontinued  his 
toil,  the  ox  rested  from  the  plough,  all  nature  seemed 
to  sympathize  with  their  loss,  and  the  muffled  bells 
rung  a  peal  of  bob-major." 

The  Beau  left  little  behind  him,  and  that  little  not 
worth  much,  even  including  his  renown.  Most  of  the 
presents  which  fools  or  flatterers  had  made  him,  had 
long  since  been  sent  chtz  ma  tante ;  a  few  trinkets 
and  pictures,  and  a  few  books,  which  probably  he  had 
never  read,  constituted  his  little  store. ^ 

Bath  and  Tunbridge — for  he  had  annexed  that 
lesser  kingdom  to  his  own — had  reason  to  mourn  him, 
for  he  had  almost  made  them  what  they  were ;  but  the 
country  has  not  much  cause  to  thank  the  upholder  of 
gaming,  the  institutor  of  silly  fashion,  and  the  high- 
priest  of  folly.  Yet  Nash  was  free  from  many  vices 
we  should  expect  to  find  in  such  a  man.  He  did  not 
drink,  for  instance ;  one  glass  of  wine,  and  a  moderate 
quantity  of  small  beer,  being  his  allowance  for  dinner. 
He  Avas  early  in  his  hours,  and  made  others  sensible 
in  theirs.  He  Avas  generous  and  charitable  when  he 
had  tlie  money  ;  and  when  lie  had  not  he  took  care  to 
make  his  subjects  subscribe  it.     In  a  word,  there  have 

'  In  the  "Annual  Register"  (vol.  v.  ]>.  ."7)  it  is  stated  tliat  a 
pension  of  ten  guineas  a  month  was  paiil  to  Nash  during  the  hitter 
years  of  his  life  by  the  Coriioiation  of  I5ath. 


BEAU  NASH  AND  HIS  FLATTERERS.         237 

been  worse  men  and  greater  fools ;  and  we  may  again 
ask  whether  those  who  obeyed  and  flattered  liini  were 
not  nioi-e  contemptible  tlian   Beau  Nash  himself. 

So  much    for   the   powers  of  impudence  and  a  fine 
coat  I 


PHILIP,   DUKE  OF    WHARTON. 

If  an  illustration  Avere  wanted  of  that  character  un- 
stable as  water  which  shall  not  excel,  this  duke  would 
at  once  supply  it :  if  we  had  to  warn  genius  against 
self-indulgence — some  clever  boy  against  extravagance 
— some  poet  against  the  bottle — this  is  the  "  shocking 
example  "  we  should  select :  if  we  wished  to  show  hoAV 
the  most  splendid  talents,  the  greatest  wealth,  the  most 
careful  education,  the  most  unusual  advantages,  may  all 
prove  useless  to  a  man  who  is  too  vain  or  too  frivolous 
to  use  them  properly,  it  is  enough  to  cite  that  nobleman 
whose  acts  gained  for  him  the  name  of  the  infamous 
Duke  of  Wharton.  Never  was  character  more  mer- 
curial, or  life  more  unsettled  than  his  ;  never,  perhaps, 
were  more  chann;es  crowded  into  a  fewer  number  of 
years,  more  fame  and  infamy  gathered  into  so  short  a 
space.  Suffice  it  to  say,  that  when  Pope  wanted  a  man 
to  hold  up  to  the  scorn  of  the  world  as  a  sample  of 
wasted  abilities,  it  was  Wharton  that  he  chose,  and  his 
lines  rise  in  grandeur  in  jji'oportion  to  the  vileness  of 
the  theme : 

"  "Wharton,  the  scorn  and  wonder  of  our  days, 
AVhose  ruling  passion  was  a  love  of  praise. 

2;js 


iJ1)iUp,  73ukr  of  Mii)artou, 


POPE'S  LINES  ON   WIIAKTON.  2:39 

Born  willi  wliate'er  could  win  it  from  the  wise, 
WoniLMi  anil  fouls  must  like  him  or  he  dies; 
Though  raptured  senates  hung  on  all  he  spoke, 
The  club  must  liail  liim  m;i.ster  of  tliu  joke. 
Shall  parts  so  various  aim  at  nothing  new? 
He'll  shine  a  Tully  and  a   Wiliiint  too. 
*  -x-  ;;•  x- 

Thus  with  each  gift  of  nature  and  of  art, 
And  wanting  nothing  but  an  honest  heart; 
Grown  all  to  all,  from  no  one  vice  e.vempt. 
And  most  contemptible,  to  shun  contempt; 
His  jyassion  still  to  covet  general  i)raise. 
His  life  to  forfeit  it  a  thousand  ways; 
A  constant  bounty  which  no  friend  has  made ; 
An  angel  tongue  which  no  man  can  persuade; 
A  fool  with  more  of  wit  than  all  maidvind; 
Too  rash  for  thought,  for  action  too  refined." 

And  tlu'ii  tliosc  ineniorablc  lines — 

"A  tyrant  to  the  wilV'  his  heart  approved, 
A  rebel  to  the  very  king  he  loved  ; 
lie  dies,  sad  outcast  of  each  church  and  state; 
And,  harder  still !  llagitious,  yet  not  great." 

Though  it  may  be  doubted  if  the  "  hist  of  praise  "  was 
the  cause  of  his  ecoentricities,  so  much  as  an  utter 
re.stlcssness  and  instability  of  character,  Pope's  de- 
scription is  sufficiently  con-ect.  and  \vill  jn-epare  us  for 
one  of  the  most  disapjwinting  lives  wo  could  well  have 
to  read. 

Philip,  Duke  of  Wharton,  was  one  of  those  men  of 
whom  an  Iri.shman  would  say,  that  they  were  fortu- 
nate before  they  were  born.     His  ancestors  bequeathed 


240  THE  DUKFS  ANCESTORS. 

him  a  name  that  stood  high  in  England  for  bravery 
and  excellence.  The  first  of  the  house,  Sir  Thomas 
Wharton,  had  won  his  peerage  from  Henry  VIII.  for 
routing  some  15,000  Scots  with  500  men,  and  other 
gallant  deeds.  From  his  father  the  marquis  he  in- 
herited much  of  his  talents  ;  but  for  the  heroism  of  the 
former,  he  seems  to  have  received  it  only  in  the  ex- 
travagant form  of  foolhardiness.  "Walpole  remembered, 
but  could  not  tell  where,  a  ballad  he  wrote  on  being 
arrested  by  the  guard  in  St.  James's  Park,  for  singing 
the  Jacobite  song,  "  The  King  shall  have  his  own 
again,"  and  quotes  two  lines  to  show  that  he  was  not 
ashamed  of  his  own  cowardice  on  the  occasion : — 

"The  duke  he  drew  out  half  his  sword, 
tlie  guard  drew  out  the  rest." 

At  the  siege  of  Gibraltar,  where  he  took  up  arms 
against  his  own  king  and  country,  he  is  said  to  have 
gone  alone  one  night  to  the  very  walls  of  the  town, 
and  challenged  the  outpost.  They  asked  him  who 
he  was,  and  when  he  replied,  openly  enough,  "  The 
Duke  of  Wharton,"  they  actually  allowed  him  to  re- 
turn without  either  firing  on  or  capturing  him.  The 
story  seems  somewhat  apocryphal,  but  it  is  quite  possi- 
ble that  the  English  soldiers  may  have  refrained  from 
violence  to  a  well-known  mad-cap  nobleman  of  their 
own  nation. 

Philip,  son  of  the  Marquis  of  Wharton,  at  that  time 
only  a  baron,  was  born  in  the  last  year  but  one  of  the 


Ills   KAIM.V    VKARS.  211 

sevoiitc'C'iilli  ceiitiiiT,  iiiid  caiiic  into  the  world  endowed 
witli  every  (|ii:ility  wliicli  iniLrlit  have  made  a  great 
/nan,  it"  he  had  oidy  adde<l  wisdom  to  tliem.  His 
Hither  wishi'd  to  make  him  a  brilliant  statesman,  and, 
to  have  a  lietter  eliancc  of"  doing  so,  kept  liim  at  home, 
ami  had  him  educated  under  liis  own  eye.  lie  seems 
to  have  easily  and  lapidly  ae(juired  a  knowledge  of 
classical  languages ;  and  his  memory  was  so  good  that 
"Nvlicn  a  boy  of  thirteen  he  could  repeat  the  greater 
part  of  the  "^l^neid  ""  and  of  Horace  by  heart.  Ilis 
father's  keen  perception  did  not  allow  him  to  stop  at 
classics  ;  and  he  wisely  prepared  liim  for  the  career  to 
which  he  was  destined  by  the  study  of  history,  ancient 
and  modern,  and  of  English  literature,  and  by  teach- 
ing him,  even  at  that  early  age,  the  art  of  thinking  and 
Avriting  on  any  given  subject,  by  proposing  themes  for 
essays.  There  is  certainly  no  surer  mode  of  develop- 
ing the  reflective  and  reasoning  powers  of  the  mind ; 
and  the  boy  progressed  with  a  rapidity  which  was  al- 
most alarming.  Oratory,  too,  was  of  course  cultivated, 
an<l  to  this  end  the  young  nobleman  w^as  made  to  re- 
cite before  a  small  audience  passages  from  Shakespeare, 
and  even  speeches  which  had  been  delivered  in  the 
House  of  Lords,  and  we  may  be  certain  he  showed  no 
bashfulness  in  this  displav. 

He  was  precocious  beyond  measure,  and  at  sixteen 
was  a  man.  His  first  act  of  folly — or,  perhaps,  he. 
thought,  of  manhood — came  off  at  this  early  age.  He 
fell   in   love   with   the    daughter  of   a   Major-General 

Vol..  I.— 16 


242  MARRIAGE  AT  SIXTEEN. 

Holmes  ;  and  tlioug-h  there  is  notliino;  extraordinary  in 
that,  for  nine-tenths  of  us  have  been  h)ve-mad  at  as 
early  an  age,  he  did  Avliat  fortunately  very  few  do  in  a 
first  love  affair,  he  married  the  adored  one.  Early 
marriages  are  often  extolled,  and  justly  enough,  as 
safeguards  against  profligate  habits,  but  this  one  seems 
to  have  had  the  contrary  effect  on  young  Philip.  His 
wife  was  in  every  sense  too  good  for  him  :  he  was 
madly  in  love  with  her  at  first,  but  soon  shamefully 
and  openly  faithless.     Pope's  line — 

"A  tyrant  to  the  wife  his  heart  approved," 

requires  explanation  here.  It  is  said  that  she  did  not 
present  her  boy-husband  with  a  son  for  three  years 
after  their  marriage,  and  on  this  child  he  set  great 
value  and  great  hopes.  About  this  time  he  left  his 
wife  in  the  country,  intending  to  amuse  himself  in 
town,  and  ordered  her  to  remain  behind  with  the 
child.  The  poor  deserted  woman  Avell  knew  what  was 
the  real  object  of  this  journey,  and  could  not  endure 
the  separation.  In  the  hope  of  keeping  her  young 
husband  out  of  harm,  and  none  the  less  because 
she  loved  him  very  tenderly,  she  followed  him  soon 
after,  taking  the  little  Marquis  of  Malmsbury,  as 
the  young  live  ])ranch  was  called,  with  her.  The 
duke  was,  of  course,  disgusted,  but  his  anger  was 
turned  into  hatred,  when  tlie  child,  which  he  had 
hoped  to  make  his  heir  and  successor,  caught  in 
town   the    small-pox,   and    died   in    infancy,     lie  was 


WFTARTOX  TAKES  LEAVE  OF  HIS  TUTOR.   243 

lurioiis  with  liis  \viii',  I'cf'iiscil  t(>  see  licr  for  a  Idiij^ 
time,    atiil    treated    lier   with    iiiireleiitini!;   eehlues.s. 

The  early  iiiania;re  was  inmh  to  the  distaste  of 
r]iili|)'s  fatlier,  who  liad  heeii  hitely  made  a  marquis, 
and  \vh(t  hoped  to  arraii<fe  a  very  grand  '•alliance" 
ior  his  petted  son.  lie  was,  in  fact,  so  much  grieved 
bv  it  that  he  was  fool  enouLn-h  to  die  of  it  in  1T1-"),  and 
tlie  mareliioness  survived  him  only  about  a  year,  be- 
iiii:  no  less  disgusted  witli  tlie  licentiousness  which  she 
already  discovered  in  her  Young  Hopeful. 

She  did  what  she  could  to  set  him  rijiht.  ami  the 
young  married  man  was  shipped  off"  with  a  tutor, 
a  French  Huguenot,  who  was  to  take  him  to  Geneva 
to  be  educated  as  a  Protestant  and  a  Whig.  The 
young  scamp  declined  to  be  either,  lie  was  taken, 
by  Avay  of  seeing  the  Avorhl,  to  the  petty  courts  of 
Germany,  and  of  course  to  that  of  Hanover,  Avhich 
had  kindly  sent  us  the  worst  family  that  ever  dis- 
graced the  English  throne,  and  by  the  various  princes 
and  grand-dukes  received  with  all  the  honors  due  to  a 
young  British  nobleman. 

The  tutor  ami  his  (diarge  settled  at  last  at  Geneva, 
and  mv  young  lord  amused  himself  with  tormentinir 
his  strict  guardian.  Walpole  tells  us  that  he  once 
roused  him  out  of  l)ed  only  to  borrow  a  pin.  There 
is  no  doubt  tliat  lie  led  the  worthy  man  a  sad  life  of 
it ;  and  to  put  a  climax  to  his  conduct  ran  away  from 
him  at  last,  leaving  Avith  him.  by  way  of  hostage, 
a    young  bear-cub — ])rubably   (piite  as   tame  as   him- 


244  ESPOUSES  THE  CHEVALIER'S  CAUSE. 

self — wliicli  lie  had  picked  up  somewhere,  and  grown 
very  fond  of — birds  of  a  featlier,  seemingly — with  a 
message,  Avhicli  showed  more  ^\\t  tlian  good-nature,  to 
this  efiect : — "  Beino-  no  lonsjer  able  to  bear  with  your 
ill-usage,  I  think  proper  to  be  gone  from  you ;  how- 
ever, that  you  niiiy  not  want  company,  I  have  left  you 
the  bear,  as  the  most  suitable  companion  in  the  Avorld 
that  could  be  picked  out  for  you." 

The  tutor  had  to  console  himself  with  a  tu  quoqiie, 
for  the  young  scapegrace  had  found  his  way  to  Lj^ons 
in  October,  171G,  and  then  did  the  very  thing  his 
father's  son  should  not  have  done.  The  Chevalier  de 
St.  George,  the  Old  Pretender,  James  III.,  or  by 
Avhatever  other  alias  you  prefer  to  call  him,  having 
failed  in  his  attempt  "  to  have  his  own  again  "  in  the 
preceding  year,  was  then  holding  high  court  in  high 
dudgeon  at  Avignon.  Any  adherent  would,  of  course, 
be  welcomed  with  open  arms ;  and  when  the  young 
marquis  wrote  to  him  to  offer  his  allegiance,  sending 
Avith  his  letter  a  fine  entire  horse  as  a  peace  offering, 
he  was  warmly  responded  to.  A  person  of  rank  was 
at  once  despatched  to  bring  the  youth  to  the  ex-regal 
court ;  he  was  welcomed  with  much  enthusiasm,  and 
the  empty  title  of  Duke  of  Northumberland  at  once 
most  kindly  conferred  on  him.  However,  the  young 
marquis  does  not  seem  to  luive  gofife  the  exile's  court, 
for  he  stayed  there  one  day  only,  and  returning  to 
Lyons,  set  off  to  enjoy  himself  at  Paris.  Witli  much 
Avit,   no  prudence,   and  a  plentiful   supply  of  money, 


FKOLICS   AT   I'ARIS.  240 

■\vliicli  lie  tlirow  about  vnth  tlic  recklessness  of  a  Imy 
just  escaped  iVom  liis  tutor,  lie  could  not  fail  to  succeed 
in  that  caj)it;il  :  and,  accordingly,  the  English  received 
liiui  with  open  arms.  Even  the  ambassador.  Lord 
ytair,  though  he  had  heard  i-umors  of  liis  wild  doings, 
invited  him  repeatedly  to  dinner,  and  did  his  best,  by 
advice  and  warning,  to  keej)  him  out  of  harm's  way. 
Young  Philip  had  a  hoiTuv  of  preceptors,  paid  or 
gratuitous,  ami  treated  the  plenipotentiary  Avitli  tlie 
same  coolness  as  he  had  served  the  Huguenot  tutor. 
"When  the  former,  praising  the  late  marquis,  expressed 
— by  Avay  of  a  sliglit  liint — a  liope  "that  he  uoidd 
follow  so  illustrious  an  example  of  fidelity  to  his  prince, 
and  affection  to  his  country,  by  treading  in  the  same 
steps,"  the  young  scamj)  replied,  cleverly  enough, 
"  That  he  thanked  his  excellency  for  his  good  advice, 
and  as  his  excellency  had  also  a  worthy  and  deserving 
father,  he  hoped  he  would  likewise  copy  so  bright  an 
example,  and  tread  in  all  liis  steps;"  the  pertness  of 
which  was  pertinent  enough,  for  old  Lord  Stair  had 
taken  a  disgraceful  part  against  his  sovereign  in  tlie 
massacre  of  Glencoc. 

His  frolics  at  Paris  were  of  the  most  reckless  cha- 
racter for  a  young  nobleman.  At  the  ambassador's 
own  table  he  would  occasionally  send  a  servant  to  some 
one  of  the  guests,  to  ask  him  to  join  in  tlie  Old  Chev- 
alier's health,  thoiigli  it  was  almost  treason  at  that 
time  to  mention  his  name  even.  And  airain,  when  the 
windows  at  the  embassv  had  been  broken  bv  a  youno; 


24G  SEEKS  A  SEAT   IX   PAELIAMENT. 

English  Jacobite,  'wlio  Avas  forthwith  committed  to 
Fort  TEveque,  the  hare-brained  marquis  proposed, 
out  of  revenge,  to  break  them  a  second  time,  and  only 
abandoned  the  project  because  he  could  get  no  one  to 
join  him  in  it.  Lord  Stair,  however,  had  too  much 
sense  to  be  offended  at  the  follies  of  a  boy  of  seventeen, 
even  though  that  boy  was  the  representative  of  a  great 
Englisn  family  ;  he  probably  thought  it  would  be  bet- 
ter to  recall  him  to  his  allegiance  by  kindness  and 
advice,  than,  by  resenting  his  behavior,  to  drive  him 
irrevocably  to  the  opposite  party  ;  but  he  was  doubt- 
less considerably  relieved  when,  after  leading  a  Avild 
life  in  the  capital  of  France,  spending  his  money  lav- 
ishly, and  doing  precisely  everj^tliing  which  a  young 
English  nobleman  ought  not  to  do,  my  lord  marcjuis 
took  his  departure  in  Decemlicr,   1716. 

The  political  education  he  had  received  now  made 
the  unstable  youth  ready  and  anxious  to  shine  in  the 
State ;  but  being  yet  under  age,  he  could  not,  of  course, 
take  his  seat  in  the  House  of  Lords.  Perhaps  he  was 
conscious  of  his  own  wonderful  abilities  ;  perhap,s,  as 
Pope  declares,  he  was  thirsting  for  praise,  and  wislied 
to  display  them  ;  certainly  he  was  itching  to  l)ecome 
an  orator,  and  as  he  could  not  sit  in  an  Eniilish  Par- 
liament,  he  remembered  that  he  Iiad  a  peerage  in  Ire- 
land as  Earl  of  IJathfernhame  and  Marquis  of  Cath- 
erlogh,  and  ofl'  he  set  to  see  if  the  Milesians  would 
stand  upon  somewhat  less  ceremony.  He  was  not  dis- 
appointed  there.      "  His   brilliant   parts,"'  we  ai'e  told 


"PAWNINCi    Ills   PRINCIPLES."  247 

by  contemporary  writers,  but  ratber,  we  sIjouM  tbink, 
bis  reputation  for  wit  and  eccentricity,  ''found  favor 
in  tbe  eyes  of  Hibernian  <juieksilvers,  and  in  spite 
of  liis  years,  be  was  a(bnitti.'d  to  tbe  Iri.sli  House  of 
Lords." 

Wbcn  a  friend  liad  rc])roacbed  bini,  liefore  lie  b'ft 
France,  witb  infidelity  ti>  tbe  princii)les  so  long  es- 
poused by  bis  family,  be  is  reported  to  liave  replied, 
cbaracteristically  enougb,  tbat  "  he  bad  pawned  bis 
princii)les  to  Gordon,  the  Chevalier's  banker,  for  a 
considerable  sum,  and,  till  be  could  repay  him,  be 
must  be  a  Jacobite ;  but  when  that  was  done,  he  would 
aorain  return  to  the  Wbigs."     It  is  as  likely  as  not  that 

O  CD  •^ 

he  borrowed  from  Gordon  on  tbe  strength  of  the  Chev- 
alier's favor,  for  though  a  marquis  in  bis  own  right,  he 
Avas  even  at  this  period  always  in  want  of  cash  ;  and 
on  tbe  other  band,  the  speech,  exhibiting  tbe  grossest 
want  of  any  sense  of  honor,  is  in  thorough  keeping 
witli  bis  after-life.  I»ut  wdietber  he  paid  Gordon  on 
bis  return  to  England — which  is  highly  iniprobalde — 
or  whether  be  bad  not  honor  enough  to  keep  his  com- 
i)aet — which  is  extremely  likely — there  is  no  doubt 
tbat  mv  lord  marquis  Ix'gan.  at  this  period,  to  ipialify 
himself  f'or  tbe  })ost  of  parish  weathercock  to  St. 
Stephen's. 

His  early  defectioni  to  a  man  who,  whether  rightful 
heir  or  not,  had  tbat  of  romance  in  his  history  which 
is  even  now  sufficient  to  make  our  young  ladies 
^'  thorough   Jacobites  "  at   heart,  was  easily  to  be  ox- 


248  ZEAL  FOR  THE  OEANGE  CAUSE. 

cused,  on  the  plea  of  youth  and  high  spirit.  The 
same  excuse  does  not  exphiin  his  rapid  return  to 
Whiggery — in  which  there  is  no  romance  at  all — the 
moment  he  took  his  seat  in  the  Irish  House  of  Lords. 
There  is  only  one  way  to  explain  the  zeal  with  which 
he  now  advocated  the  Orange  cause:  he  must  have 
been  eitlier  a  very  designing  knave,  or  a  very  unprin- 
cipled fool.  As  he  gained  nothing  ])y  the  change 
but  a,  dukedom  for  which  he  did  not  care,  and  as  he 
cared  for  little  else  that  the  government  could  give 
him,  we  may  acquit  him  of  any  very  deep  motives. 
On  the  other  hand,  his  life  and  some  of  his  letters 
show  that,  with  a  vast  amount  of  bravado,  he  was  suf- 
ficiently a  coward.  When  supplicated,  he  was  always 
obstinate;  when  neglected,  always  supplicant.  Now 
it  required  some  courage  in  those  days  to  be  a  Jacobite. 
Perhaps  he  cared  for  nothing  but  to  astonisli  and  dis- 
gust everybody  with  the  facility  with  Avliich  he  coidd 
turn  his  coat,  as  a  hippodromist  does  with  the  ease  with 
Avhich  he  changes  his  costume.  He  was  a  boy  and  a 
peer,  and  he  wotdd  make  pretty  play  of  his  position. 
He  had  considerable  talents,  and  now,  as  he  sat  in  the 
Irish  House,  devoted  them  entirely  to  tlie  support  of 
the  government. 

For  the  next  four  years  he  was  employed,  on  the 
one  hand  in  political,  on  the  other  in  profligate,  life. 
He  shone  in  botli  ;  and  was  no  less  admired,  by 
the  wits  of  those  days,  for  his  speeches,  his  argu- 
ments,   and    his    zeal,    ibaii    for    the    utter    disregard 


A   JACOBITE  HERO.  249 

of  public  decency  he  displayed  in  his  vices.  Such  a 
promising  youth,  adhering  to  the  government,  merited 
some  mark  of  its  esteem,  and  accordingly,  before  attain- 
ing the  age  of  twenty-one,  he  was  raised  to  a  dukedom. 
Bein<r  of  a^e,  he  took  his  seat  in  the  English  House  of 
Lords,  and  had  not  l^een  long  there  before  he  again 
turned  coat,  and  came  out  in  the  light  of  a  Jacobite 
hero.  It  was  now  that  he  gathered  most  of  his 
laurels. 

The  Hanoverian  monarch  had  been  on  the  English 
throne  some  six  years.  Had  the  Chevalier's  attempt 
occurred  at  this  period,  it  may  be  doubted  if  it  woidd 
not  have  been  successful.  Th-  "Old  Pretender" 
came  too  soon,  the  "Young  Pretender"  too  late. 
At  till'  period  of  the  first  attempt,  the  public  had 
had  no  time  to  contrast  Stuarts  and  Guelphs ;  at  that 
of  the  second,  thev  hail  forijjotteii  tlie  one  and  ijrown 
accustomed  to  the  other;  but  at  the  moment  when 
our  young  duke  appeared  on  the  l)oards  of  the  senate, 
the  vices  of  the  Hanoverians  were  beginning  to  draw 
down  on  them  the  contempt  of  the  educated  and  the 
ridicule  of  the  vidgar;  and  perhaps  no  moment  could 
have  been  more  favorable  for  advocating  a  restoration 
of  the  Stuarts.  If  Wharton  liad  had  as  much  energy 
and  consistency  as  he  had  talent  and  impudence,  he 
rai<Tlit  have  done  much  towards  that  desirable,  or 
undesirable,   end. 

The  grand  (piestion  at  this  time  before  the  House 
was    the    trial    of    Atterbury,    Bishop    of    Rochester, 


250  THE  TRIAL  OF   ATTERBURY. 

demanded  by  Sir  Robert  Walpole.  The  man  had 
a  spirit  ahiiost  as  restless  as  his  defender.  The  son 
of  a  man  -who  might  have  been  the  original  of  the 
Vicar  of  Bray,  he  was  very  little  of  a  poet,  less 
of  a  priest,  but  a  great  deal  of  a  politician.  He 
was  born  in  1662,  so  that  at  this  time  he  must 
have  been  nearly  sixty  years  old.  lie  had  had  by 
no  means  a  hard  life  of  it,  for  family  interest,  to- 
gether with  eminent  talents,  procured  him  one  ap- 
pointment after  another,  till  he  reached  the  bench 
at  the  age  of  fifty-one,  in  the  reign  of  Anne.  He 
had  already  distinguished  himself  in  several  ways, 
most,  perhaps,  by  controversies  with  Hoadley,  and  by 
sundry  high-church  motions.  But  after  his  elcation, 
ho  displayed  his  principles  more  boldly,  refused  to  sign 
the  Declaration  of  the  Bishops,  which  was  somewhat 
servilely  made  to  assure  George  the  First  of  the  fi<lelity 
of  the  Established  Church,  suspended  the  curate  of 
Gravesend  for  three  years  because  he  allowed  the 
Dutch  to  have  a  service  performed  in  his  church, 
and  even,  it  is  said,  on  the  death  of  Anne,  offered 
to  proclaim  Kiiig  James  III.,  and  head  a  procession 
himself  in  his  lawn  sleeves.  The  end  of  this  and 
other  vagaries  was,  that  in  1722,  the  Government  sent 
him  to  the  Tower,  on  suspicion  of  being  connected 
with  a  plot  in  favor  of  tlie  Gld  (Mievalior.  The  case 
excited  no  little  attention,  for  it  was  long  since  a 
bishop  had  been  charged  with  high  ti'eason  ;  it  was 
added  that  his   jailers  used  him    rudely  :   and.  in  short. 


WHARTON'S   DEFENCE  OF  THE  BISHOP.      251 

public  SYiTipathy  ratlicv  went  aloHL^  witli  him  for  a  time. 
Ill  MmicIi,  17--"n  :i  1)111  was  presented  to  the  Commons, 
lui-  ''  iiillicting  certain  pains  ;iii<l  penalties  on  Francis, 
Liinl  Bishop  of  Rochester,"  an<l  it  passed  that  House  in 
Apiil;  hut  -when  carried  up  to  the  Lords,  a  defence 
was  resolved  on.  The  hill  Avas  read  a  third  time 
on  ^Fav  l')tli,  anil  on  that  occasion  the  Duke  of 
AVh:irti>n,  llu-n  only  twenty-four  years  old,  rose  and 
delivered  a  sj)eech  in  fivor  of  the  hislioji.  Tliis 
oration  far  more  resemhicd  that  of  a  lawyer  sum- 
min;i;  up  the  evidence  than  of  a  parliamentary  orator 
enlar<!;ini2;  on  the  general  issue.  It  was  remarkable  for 
the  clearness  of  its  argument,  the  wonderful  memory  of 
facts  it  displayed,  and  the  ease  and  rapidity  with  which 
it  annihilated  the  testimony  of  various  witnesses  ex- 
amined before  the  House.  It  was  mild  and  moderate, 
abb  and  sufficient,  but  seems  to  have  lacked  all  the 
enthusiasm  Ave  might  expect  from  one  who  was  after- 
Avards  so  active  a  partisan  of  the  Chevalier's  cause. 
In  short,  striking  as  it  Avas,  it  cannot  be  said  to  give 
the  duke  any  claim  to  the  title  of  a  great  orator ; 
it  Avould  rather  prove  that  he  might  have  nuide  a 
first-rate  hiAvyer.  It  shows,  however,  that  had  he 
chosen  to  apply  himself  diligently  to  politics,  he  might 
have  turned  out  a  great  leader  of  the  Opposition. 

Neither  this  speech  nor  the  bishops  able  defence 
saved  him  ;  and  in  the  following  month  he  Avas  ban- 
islicil  tlic  kingdom,  and  passi'il  the  rest  of  his  days  in 
Paris. 


2o2  A   PARTISAN   OF  THE  CHEVALIER. 

Wharton,  however,  was  not  content  with  the  House 
as  an  arena  of  political  agitation.  He  was  now  old 
enough  to  have  matured  his  principles  thoroughly,  and 
he  completely  espoused  the  cause  of  the  exiled  family. 
He  amused  himself  with  agitating  throughout  the  coun- 
try, influencing  elections,  and  seeking  popularity  by 
becoming  a  member  of  the  Wax-chandlers'  Company. 
It  is  a  proof  of  his  great  abilities,  so  shamefully  thrown 
away,  that  he  now,  during  the  course  of  eight  months, 
issued  a  paper,  called  "  The  True  Briton,"  every  Mon- 
day and  Friday,  written  by  himself,  and  containing 
varied  and  sensible  arguments  in  support  of  liis  oj)in- 
ions,  if  not  displaying  any  vast  amount  of  original 
genius.  This  paper,  on  the  morlel  of  ''The  Tatler," 
"The  Spectator,"  etc.,  had  a  considerable  sale,  and 
attained  no  little  celebrity,  so  that  the  Duke  of  Whar- 
ton acquired  the  reputation  of  a,  literary  man  as  well  as 
of  a  political  leader. 

But,  whatever  he  might  have  been  in  either  capacity, 
his  disgraceful  life  soon  destroyed  all  hope  of  success 
in  them.  He  was  now  an  acknowledged  wit  about 
town,  and,  what  was  then  almost  a  recognized  concom- 
itant of  tlint  character,  an  acknowledged  })rofligate. 
He  scattered  his  large  fortune  in  the  most  reckless  and 
foolish  manner :  tliough  married,  his  moral  conduct  was 
iis  ]);ul  as  that  of  any  ])achelor  of  the  day  :  and  such 
Avas  liis  extravagance  and  open  licentiousness,  tliat, 
liaving  Avasted  a  princely  revenue,  he  Avas  soon  caught 
in  the  meshes  of  Chancery,  Avhich  very  sensibly  vested 


iivi'()(  i;ri'i<  Ai.  sKiXS  of  pfxithnce.      253 

his  fortune  in  the  hands  of  trustees,  and  cDiuiJeUed  him 
to  be  satisfied  with  an  income  of  twelve  hundred  pounds 
a  year. 

The  youn<f  rascal  ikjw  slujwed  hypocritical  signs 
of  ])enitenee — he  Avas  always  an  adept  in  that  line — 
and  |)rotested  lie  would  go  abroad  and  live  quietly,  till 
his  losses  sIiouM  be  retrieved.  There  is  little  doubt 
that,  under  this  laudable  design,  he  concealed  one  of 
attaching  himself  closer  to  the  Chevalier  party,  and 
even  espousing  the  faith  of  that  unfortunate  prince,  or 
pretender,  whichever  he  may  have  been.  He  set  off 
for  Vienna,  leaving  his  wife  behind  to  die,  in  April, 
172G.  lie  had  long  since  quarrelled  with  her.  and 
treated  her  with  cruel  neglect,  and  at  her  death  lie  was 
not  likely  to  be  niucli  alliieted.  It  is  said,  that,  after 
that  event,  a  ducal  I'auiilv  ol1eve(|  him  a  daughter  and 
large  fortune  in  marriage,  and  that  the  Duke  of  Whar- 
ton  declined  the  offer,  because  the  latter  was  to  be  tied 
up,  and  he  could  not  conveniently  tie  up  the  former. 
However  this  may  be,  he  remained  a  widower  for  a 
short  time:  we  may  be  sure,  not  long. 

The  hypocrisy  of  going  abroad  to  retrench  was  not 
long  undiscovered.  The  fascinating  scapegrace  seems 
to  have  delighted  in  playing  on  the  credulity  of  others; 
and  Walpole  relates  that,  on  the  eve  of  the  day  on 
which  he  delivered  his  famous  speech  for  Atterbury, 
he  sought  an  interview  with  the  minister,  Sir  Robert 
Walj)ole,  expressed  great  contrition  at  having  espoused 
the   bishop's   cause  hitherto,    and   a   determination   to 


254  SIR  ROBERT  WALPOLE  DUPED. 

speak  against  liim  tlie  following  day.  The  minister 
Avas  taken  in,  and  at  the  duke's  request,  supplied  hiui 
Avitli  all  the  main  arguments,  pro  and  eon.  The  de- 
ceiver, havino;  irot  these  well  into  his  hrain — one  of  the 
most  retentive — rejiaired  to  his  London  haunts,  passed 
the  night  in  drinking,  and  the  next  day  produced  all 
the  arguments  he  had  digested,  in  the  hlshoiis  favor. 

At  Vienna  he  was  well  received,  and  carried  out  his 
private  mission  successfully,  but  was  too  restless  to  stay 
in  one  place,  an<l  soon  set  oft'  for  Madrid.  Tired  now 
of  politics,  he  took  a  turn  at  love.  He  was  a  poet  after 
a  fashion,  for  the  pieces  he  has  left  are  not  very  good  : 
he  was  a  fine  gentleman,  always  spending  more  money 
than  he  had,  and  is  said  to  have  been  handsome.  Ilis 
portraits  do  not  give  us  this  impression  :  the  features 
are  not  very  regular,  and,  though  not  coarse,  are  cer- 
tainly not  refined.  The  mouth,  somewhat  sensual,  is 
still  much  firmer  than  his  character  would  lead  us  to 
expect ;  the  nose  sharp  at  the  ])oint,  but  cogitative  at 
the  nostrils  ;  the  eves  lonii;  but  not  larjie ;  Avhile  the 
raised  brow  has  all  that  openness  Avhich  he  displayed 
in  the  indecency  of  his  vices,  but  not  in  any  honesty  in 
his  political  career.  In  a  word,  the  face  is  not  attract- 
ive. Yet  he  is  described  as  liaving  had  a  brilliant 
complexion,  a  lively,  vai'ying  expression,  and  a  charm 
of  person  and  manner  that  was  (i[uito  irresistible. 
Whether  on  this  account,  or  for  his  talents  and  wit, 
wdiich  Avere  really  shining,  his  new  Juliet  fell  as  deeply 
in  love  with  him  us  he  with  her. 


A   XKW   lOVE.  255 

Slic  ^VMS  iiiiiid  ol'  lidiioi' — Mild  a  liiiilily  limiorahlo 
maid — to  tlu'  (.^Miccn  of  Sj)ain.  Tlie  Irish  I'e^iiiK'iit.s 
lull')-  iiiH)lovcd  ill  tlio  Siiaiiisli  service  liad  l)ocoinc 
more  or  less  iiatiirali/.i'd  in  lluit  coimlrv.  which  ac- 
counts for  the  great  inniil»er  of  thoroughly  Milesian 
names  still  to  he  I'oiiiid  there,  some  of  them,  as 
O'DoniicIl,  owned  hy  men  of  high  distinction. 
Among  other  officers  Avho  had  settled  with  their 
families  in  the  jx'iiinsula  was  a  Colonel  O'llyrne, 
who,  like  most  of  his  countrymen  there,  died  })cnni- 
less,  leaving  his  widow  with  a  pension  and  his  daugh- 
ter without  a  sixpence.  It  can  well  he  imagined  that 
an  oflTer  from  an  English  duke  was  not  to  he  sneezed 
at  hy  either  Mrs.  or  Miss  OByrne ;  hut  there  Averc 
some  grave  obstacles  to  the  match.  '^Flie  duke  was  a 
Protestant.  But  what  of  that  't — he  had  never  heen 
encumbere<l  with  religion,  nor  even  with  a  decent 
observance  of  its  institutions,  for  it  is  said  that 
when  in  England,  at  his  country  seat,  he  had,  to 
show  how  little  he  cared  for  respectability,  made  a 
point  of  having  the  hounds  out  on  a  Sunday  morn- 
ing, lie  was  not  going  to  lose  a  pretty  girl  for  the 
sake  of  a  faith  Avith  which  he  had  got  disgusted 
ever  since  his  Huguenot  tutor  tried  to  make  him  a 
sober  Christian.  lie  had  turned  coat  in  politics,  and 
Avould  now  try  his  weathercock  capabilities  at  relig- 
ion. Nothing  like  variety,  so  Romanist  he  became. 
But  this  was  not  all :  his  friends  on  the  one  hand 
objected  to  his  marrying  a  ])enniless  girl,  antl  hers,  on 


256  VERY  TRYING. 

the  other,  warned  her  of  his  disreputable  character. 
But  Avhen  two  people  have  made  up  their  minds  to 
be  one,  such  trifles  as  these  are  of  no  consequence. 
A  far  more  trying  obstacle  was  the  absolute  refusal 
of  her  Most  Catholic  Majesty  to  allow  her  maid  of 
honor  to  marry  the  duke. 

It  is  a  marvel  that  after  the  life  of  dissipation  he 
had  led,  this  man  should  have  retained  the  power  of 
loving  at  all.  But  everything  about  him  was  extrava- 
gant, and  now  that  he  entertained  a  virtuous  attach- 
ment, he  was  as  wild  in  it  as  he  had  been  reckless  in 
less  respectable  connections.  He  must  have  been  sin- 
cere at  the  time,  for  the  queen's  refusal  was  followed 
by  a  fit  of  depression  that  brought  on  a  low  fever. 
The  queen  heard  of  it,  and,  touched  by  the  force  of 
his  devotion,  sent  him  a  cheering  message.  The 
moment  was  not  to  be  lost,  and,  in  spite  of  his  Aveak 
state,  he  hurried  to  court,  threw  himself  at  her 
Majesty's  feet,  and  swore  he  must  have  his  lady- 
love or  die.  Thus  pressed,  the  (;[ueen  was  forced  to 
consent,  but  warned  him  that  he  Avould  repent  of  it. 
The  marriage  took  place,  and  the  couple  set  off  to 
Rome. 

Here  the  Chevalier  again  received  him  with  oj)en 
arms,  and  took  the  opportunity  of  displaying  his 
imaginary  sovereignty  by  bestowing  on  him  the 
Order  of  the  Garter — a  politeness  the  duke  returned 
by  wearing  while  there  the  no  less  unrecognized  title 
of   Duke  of  Northumberland,  which  "his  Majesty" 


THE   DUKE  OF    WIIAUTON'S  "WIIENS."       2;" 


J.-)t 


had  formerly  conferred  on  liini.  But  James  TTT., 
though  no  saint,  had  more  respect  for  decent  con- 
(hict  tliaii  liis  father  and  uncle;  the  duke  van  off  into 
every  species  of  excess,  got  into  debt  as  usual — 

"  Wlicn  Wliarton's  just,  and  learns  to  pay  liis  debts, 
And  reputation  dwells  at  Mother  IJrett's, 

*  *  *  * 

Then,  Celia,  shall  my  constant  passion  cease. 
And  my  poor  sulf'ring  heart  shall  be  at  pestce," 

says  a  satirical  poem  of  the  day,  called  "  The  Duke 
of  Wharton's  Whens' — was  faitldess  to  the  ^vife  he 
had  lately  been  dying  for ;  and  in  short,  such  a 
thorough  blackguard,  that  not  even  the  Jacobites 
could  tolerate  him,  and  they  turned  him  out  of  the 
Holy  City  till  he  should  learn  not  to  bring  dishonor 
on  the  court  of  theii'  fictitious  sovereign. 

Tlio  duke  Avas  not  the  man  to  be  nuicli  aslianicd  of 
himself,  though  his  poor  w'li'e  ma}''  now  have  begun  to 
think  her  late  mistress  in  the  right,  and  he  was  prob- 
ably glad  of  an  excuse  for  another  change.  At  this 
time,  1727,  the  Spaniards  were  determined  to  wrest 
Gibraltar  from  its  English  defenders,  and  were  sending 
thither  a  powerful  army  under  the  command  of  Los 
Torres.  The  duke  had  tried  many  trades  Avith  more 
or  less  success,  and  now  thought  that  a  little  military 
glory  Avould  tack  on  well  to  his  highly  honorable 
biography.  At  any  rate,  there  was  novelty  in  the  din 
of  war,  and  for  novelty  he  would  go  anywhere.  It 
Vol.  r.— ]7 


258  MILITARY   GLORY   AT  GIBRALTAR. 

mattered  little  tliat  lie  sliould  fio;lit  ao;ainst  his  own 
king  and  own  countrymen  ;  lie  was  not  half  blackguard 
enough  yet,  he  may  have  thought ;  he  had  played 
traitor  for  some  time,  he  would  now  play  rebel  outright 
— the  game  ivas  worth  tlie  candle. 

So  what  does  my  lord  duke  do  l)ut  write  a  letter 
(like  the  Chinese  behind  their  mud-walls,  he  was  al- 
ways bold  enough  when  well  secured  under  the  protec- 
tion of  the  post,  and  was  more  absurd  in  ink  even  than 
in  action)  to  the  King  of  Spain,  offering  him  his  ser- 
vices as  a  volunteer  against  "  Gib."  Whether  his 
Most  Catholic  Majesty  thought  him  a  traitor,  a  mad- 
man, or  a  devoted  partisan  of  his  own,  does  not  appear, 
for  without  Avaitin";  for  an  answer — waitino;  was  always 
too  dull  work  for  Wharton — he  and  his  wife  set  off  for 
the  camp  before  Gibraltar,  introduced  themselves  to 
the  Conde  in  command,  were  received  with  all  the 
honor — let  us  sav  honors — due  to  a  duke — and  estab- 
lished  themselves  comfortably  in  the  ranks  of  the 
enemy  of  England.  But  all  the  duke's  hopes  of 
prowess  were  blighted.  lie  had  good  opportunities. 
The  Conde  de  los  Torres  made  him  his  aide-de-camp, 
and  sent  him  daily  into  the  trenches  to  see  how  matters 
went  on.  When  a  defence  of  a  certain  Spanish  out- 
work was  resolved  upon,  the  duke,  from  his  rank,  was 
chosen  for  tlie  command.  Yet  in  the  trenches  he  got 
no  worse  wound  than  a  slight  one  on  the  foot  from  a 
sphnter  of  a  shell,  and  this  he  afterwards  made  an  ex- 
cuse for  not  fii>;htino;  a  duel  wilh  swords  ;  and  as  to  the 


A   "COLONEL-AGGREGATE."  2o9 

oiit\vork.  the  English  aliaiidniKMl  tlic  attack,  so  that 
there  ^vas  no  jrlui'v  to  be  foiniil  in  the  defence.  He 
soon  grew  Aveary  of  such  inglorious  and  rather  dirty 
work  as  visiting  trenches  before  a  stronghold  ;  and  well 
he  might ;  for  if  there  be  one  thing  duller  than  another 
and  less  satisfactory,  it  must  be  digging  a  hole  out  of 
which  to  kill  your  brother  mortals;  and  thinking  ho 
should  amuse  himself  better  at  the  court,  he  set  off  lor 
]Madrid.  Here  the  king,  by  way  of  reward  for  his 
brilliant  services  in  doing  nothing,  made  him  colonel- 
aggregate — whatever  that  may  be — of  an  Irish  regi- 
ment;  a  very  poor  aggregate,  Ave  should  think.  But 
my  lord  duke  Avanted  something  livelier  than  the  com- 
mand of  a  liand  of  Hispaniolized  Milesians;  and  hav- 
ing found  the  military  career  someAvhat  uninteresting, 
Avished  to  return  to  that  of  politics.  He  remembered 
Avith  gusto  the  frolic  life  of  the  Holy  City  and  the 
political  excitement  in  the  Chevalier's  court,  and  sent 
off  a  letter  to  '-his  INIajesty  James  III.,"  expressing, 
like  a  rusticated  Oxonian,  his  penitence  for  having 
been  so  naughty  the  last  time,  and  offering  to  come 
and  be  very  good  again.  It  is  to  the  praise  of  the 
Chevalier  de  St.  George  that  he  had  worldlv  Avisdom 
enough  not  to  trust  the  gay  penitent.  lie  Avas  tired, 
as  everybody  else  Avas,  of  a  man  who  could  stick  to 
nothing,  and  did  not  seem  to  care  about  seeing  him 
again.  Accordingly,  he  replied  in  true  kingly  style, 
blaming  him  for  having  taken  up  arms  against  their 
common  country,  and  telling  him  in  polite  language — 


260  "UNCLE  nOEACE." 

as  a  policeman  does  a  riotous  drunkard — that  lie  liad 
better  go  home.  The  duke  thought  so  too,  was  not  at 
all  offended  at  the  letter,  and  set  off,  by  way  of  return- 
ing towards  his  Penates,  for  Paris,  where  he  arrived  in 
May,  1728. 

Horace  Walpole — not  tlie  Horace — but  "  Uncle  Hor- 
ace," or  "  old  Horace,"  as  he  Avas  called,  was  then  am- 
bassador to  the  court  of  the  Tuilerics.  Mr.  Walpole 
was  one  of  the  Houghton  "lot,"  a  brother  of  the 
fiimous  minister  Sir  Robert,  and,  though  less  celebra- 
ted, almost  as  able  in  liis  line.  He  had  distinguished 
himself  in  various  diplomatic  appointments,  in  Spain, 
at  Hanover  and  the  Hague,  and  having  successfully 
tackled  Cardinal  Fleury,  the  successor  of  the  Riche- 
lieus  and  Mazarins  at  Paris,  he  was  now  in  hio-li  ftivor 
at  home.  In  after  years  he  was  celebrated  for  his  duel 
with  Chetwynd,  who,  when  "  Uncle  Horace  "had  in 
the  House  expressed  a  hope  that  the  question  miglit  be 
carried,  had  exclaimed,  "  I  hope  to  see  you  hanged 
first  I"  "You  hope  to  see  me  hanged  first,  do  you?" 
cried  Horace,  with  all  tlie  ferocity  of  the  Walpoles ; 
and  thereupon,  seizing  him  by  the  most  prominent 
feature  of  his  face,  shook  him  violently.  This  was 
matter  enough  for  a  brace  of  swords  and  coffee  for  four, 
and  Mr.  Chetwynd  had  to  repent  of  his  remark  after 
being  severely  wounded.  In  those  days  our  honorable 
House  of  Commons  was  as  much  an  arena  of  Avild 
beasts  as  the  American  Senate  of  to-day.^ 
'  /.  c.  in  18(30;  before  the  War. 


wiiAirroN  TO  "linclp:  iiokack."         2<j1 

To  this  minister  (iiiv  iioldc  duke  Avrotc  a  liypocritical 
letter,  \vliicli,  as  it  shows  how  the  uum  could  write  jieiii- 
tently,  is  worth  transcrihing  : 

"  Lioxs,  June  28,  1728. 

"  Sir, — Your  excellency  will  he  surpris'd  to  receive 
a  letter  iVoni  ine ;  l)ut  the  clemency  with  which  the 
government  of  En^-land  has  treated  me,  which  is 
in  a  great  measure  owing  to  your  brother's  regard  to 
iiiv  fatlier's  memory,  makes  me  hope  that  you  will  give 
me  leave  to  express  my  gratitude  for  it. 

"  Since  his  present  majesty's  accession  to  the  throne 
I  have  absolutely  refused  to  he  concerned  witli  the 
Pretender  or  any  of  his  affairs ;  and  during  my  stay 
ill  Italy  liave  behaved  myself  in  a  manner  that  Dr. 
Peters,  JMr.  Godolphin,  and  jMr.  Mills  can  declare 
to  be  consistent  with  my  duty  to  the  present  king. 
I  was  forc'd  to  go  to  Italy  to  get  out  of  Spain, 
where,  if  my  true  design  had  lieen  known,  I  should 
have  been  treated  a  little  severely. 

"I  am  coming  to  Paris  to  put  myself  entirely  under 
.  your  excellency's  protection  ;  and  ]io])e  that  Sir  Roliert 
AValpole's  good-nature  will  prompt  him  to  save  a  family 
which  his  generosity  induced  him  to  spare.  If  your 
excellency  would  permit  me  to  wait  upon  you  for 
an  hour,  1  am  certain  you  Avould  be  convincd  of 
the  sincerity  of  my  repentance  for  my  former  mad- 
ness, Avould  become  an  advocate  witli  his  majesty 
to  grant  me  his  most  gracious  pardon,  Avhieh  it  is 
my    comfort    I    shall    never  lie    re(iuired  to  purchase 


'2G2  THE  DUKE'S  IMPUDENCE. 

by  any  step  unworthy  of  a  man  of  honor.  I  do 
not  intend,  in  case  of  the  king's  allowing  me  to 
pass  the  evening  of  my  days  under  the  shadow  of 
his  royal  protection,  to  see  England  for  some  years, 
but  shall  remain  in  France  or  Germany,  as  my  friends 
shall  advise,  and  enjoy  country  sports  till  all  former 
stories  are  buried  in  oblivion.  I  beg  of  your  excel- 
lency to  let  me  receive  your  orders  at  Paris,  which  I 
will  send  to  your  hostel  to  receive.  The  Dutchess 
of  Wharton,  who  is  with  me,  desires  leave  to  wait 
on  ?>Irs.  Walpole,  if  you  think  proper. 

"  I  am,  etc." 

After  this,  the  ambassador  could  do  no  less  than 
receive  him ;  but  he  "was  somewhat  disgusted  when 
on  leavin<ij  him  the  duke  frankly  told  him — foro-ettinji; 
all  about  his  penitent  letter,  probably,  or  too  reckless 
to  care  for  it — that  he  was  going  to  dine  with  the 
Bishop  of  Rochester — Atterbury  himself,  then  living 
in  Paris — whose  society  was  interdicted  to  any  subject 
of  King  George.  The  duke,  with  his  usual  folly, 
touched  on  other  subjects  e(j[ually  dangerous,  his  visit 
to  Rome,  and  his  conversion  to  Romanism  ;  and,  in 
short,  disgusted  the  cautious  Mr.  Walpole.  There  is 
something  delightfully  impudent  about  all  these  acts 
of  Wharton's  ;  and  hnd  he  only  been  a  clown  at  Drury 
Lane  instead  of  an  English  n()l)lemaii,  he  must  have 
been  successful.  As  it  is,  when  one  reads  of  the  petty 
hatred   .and   ]iuiu))ug   of  those  days,   when   liberty  of 


LIVING   BEYOND  HIS  MEANS.  203 

speech  was  as  unknown  as  any  other  liberty,  one 
cannot  but  aihiiirc  the  inipn(k'nce  of  his  Grace  of 
AVharton.  ami  wish  that  most  dukes,  without  beiiiLT 
as  prolligate,  would  be  as  free-spoken. 

With  six  hundred  pounds  in  his  pocket,  our  youn;5 
Lothario  now  set  up  house  at  Rouen,  with  an  establish- 
ment "  equal,"  say  the  old-school  writers,  "  to  his 
position,  but  not  to  his  mcAns."  In  other  words, 
he  undertook  to  live  in  a  style  for  whicli  he  could 
not  ])ay.  Twelve  hundred  a  year  may  be  enough 
for  a  duke,  as  for  anv  other  man,  l)ut  not  for  one 
who  considers  a  legion  of  servants  a  necessary  ap- 
pendage to  his  position.  My  lord  duke,  Avho  was 
a  good  French  scholar,  soon  found  an  ample  number 
of  friends  and  acquaintances,  and,  not  being  par- 
ticular about  either,  managed  to  get  through  his  half- 
year's  income  in  a  few  weeks.  Evil  consequence  :  he 
was  assailed  by  duns.  French  duns  know  nothing 
about  forjcivino;  debtors  ;  "  vour  monev  first,  and  then 
my  pardon,"  is  their  motto.  My  lord  duke  soon  found 
this  out.  Still  he  had  an  income,  and  could  pay  them 
all  ofl'  in  time.  So  he  diaiik  and  was  merrv,  till  one 
fine  day  came  a  disagreeal)k'  piece  of  news,  which 
startled  him  considerably.  The  government  at  home 
had  lieai-d  of  his  doings,  and  determined  to  arraign 
him  for  high  treason. 

He  could  expect  little  else,  for  had  he  not  actually 
taken  uj)  arms  against  his  sovereign  ? 

Now  Sir  Robert  Walpole  was,  no  doubt,  a  vulgarian. 


264  HIGH  TREASON. 

He  was  not  a  man  to  love  or  sympathize  ■with  ;  but  he 
was  good-natured  at  bottom.  Our  "  frolic  grace  "  had 
reason  to  acknowledge  this.  He  could  not  complain 
of  harshness  in  any  measures  taken  against  him,  and 
he  had  certainly  no  claim  to  consideration  from  the 
government  he  had  treated  so  ill.  Yet  Sir  Robert 
was  willing  to  give  him  every  chance;  and  so  far  did 
he  go,  that  he  sent  over  a  couple  of  friends  to  him  to 
induce  him  only  to  ask  pardon  of  the  king,  with  a 
promise  that  it  would  be  granted.  For  sure  the  Duke 
of  Wharton's  character  was  anomalous.  The  same  man 
who  had  more  than  once  humiliated  himself  when  un- 
asked, who  had  Avritten  to  Walpole's  brother  the  letter 
we  have  read,  would  not  now,  when  entreated  to  do  so, 
Avrite  a  few  lines  to  that  minister  to  ask  mercy.  Nay, 
when  the  gentleman  in  question  oft'ered  to  be  content 
even  with  a  letter  fi-om  the  duke's  valet,  he  refused  to 
allow  the  man  to  write.  Some  peojjle  may  admire  what 
thev  will  believe  to  be  firmness,  but  when  we  review 
the  duke's  character  and  subsequent  acts,  we  cannot 
attribute  this  refusal  to  nnything  but  obstinate  pride. 
The  consequence  of  this  folly  was  a  stoppage  of  sup- 
plies, for  as  he  was  accused  of  high  treason,  his  estate 
w^as  of  course  sequestrated.  He  revenged  himself  by 
writing  a  paper  Avliich  was  published  in  "Mist's  Jour- 
nal," and  which,  under  the  cover  of  a  Persian  tale,  con- 
tained a  species  of  libel  on  the  government. 

His  position  was  now  far  from  onvi:il)]e  :  and,  assailed 
by  duns    lie  liad  no  resource  but  to  ]niii)l)k'  himself,  not 


WllAKTON'S   KEAhV    WIT.  2G5 

before  those  lie  had  offended,  l)ut  before  the  Chevalier, 
to  whom  he  Avrote  in  his  distress,  and  who  sent  him 
c£:2<)(H),  Avhich  he  soon  frittered  away  in  follies.  This 
gone,  the  duke  begged  and  borrowed,  for  there  are 
some  people  sueh  fools  that  they  would  rather  lose  a 
thousand  jxHinds  to  a  peer  than  give  sixpence  to  a 
]).iiiper,  and  many  a  tale  was  told  of  the  artful  manner 
in  wJiiih  his  grace  managed  to  cozen  his  friends  out  of 
a  louis  or  two.      His  ready  Avit  generally  saved  him. 

Thus  on  one  occasion  an  Irish  toady  invited  him  to 
dinner:  the  duke  talked  of  his  wardrobe,  then  sadly 
defective;  what  suit  should  he  wear?  The  Ilibei'nian 
sii":<Tested  black  velvet.  "  Could  vou  recommend  a 
tailor?"  "  Certainly."  Snip  came,  an  expensive  suit 
Avas  ordered,  put  on,  and  the  dinner  taken.  In  due 
course  the  tailor  called  for  his  money.  The  duke  was 
not  a  bit  at  a  loss,  thou<i;h  he  had  but  a  few  francs  to 
his  name.  "Honest  man,"  quoth  he,  "  you  mistake 
the  matter  entirelv.  Carry  the  bill  to  Sir  Peter ;  for 
know  that  whenever  I  consent  to  Avear  another  man's 
livery,  my  master  pays  for  the  clothes,"  and  inasmuch 
as  the  dinner-giver  Avas  an  Irishman,  he  did  actually 
discharge  the  account. 

At  other  times  he  Avould  give  a  sumptuous  entertain- 
ment, and  in  one  Avav  or  another  induce  his  guests  to 
pay  for  it.  lie  Avas  only  less  adroit  in  coining  excuses 
than  Theodore  Hook,  and  had  lie  li\ cd  a  century  later, 
Avc  niiglit  have  a  volume  full  of  anecdotes  to  give  of  his 
ways  and  no  means.    MeanAvhile  his  unfortunate  duchess 


266  LAST  extre:\[ities. 

was  living  on  the  charity  of  friends,  wliile  licr  lord  and 
master,  when  he  could  get  any  one  to  pay  for  a  band, 
was  serenading  young  ladies.  Yet  he  was  jealous 
enouo-h  of  his  wife  at  times,  and  once  sent  a  challen2;e 
to  a  Scotch  gentleman,  simply  because  some  silly  friend 
asked  him  if  he  had  forbidden  his  wife  to  dance  with 
the  lord.  lie  went  all  the  way  to  Flanders  to  meet  his 
opponent ;  but,  perhaps  fortunately  for  the  duke,  Mar- 
shal Berwick  arrested  the  Scotchman,  and  the  duel 
never  came  off. 

Whether  he  felt  his  end  approaching,  or  whether  he 
was  sick  of  vile  pleasures  which  he  had  recklessly  pur- 
sued from  the  age  of  fifteen,  he  now,  though  only  thirty 
years  of  age,  retired  for  a  time  to  a  convent,  and  was 
looked  on  as  a  penitent  and  devotee.  Penury,  doubt- 
less, cured  him  in  a  measure,  and  poverty,  the  porter 
of  the  gates  of  heaven,  warned  him  to  look  forward  be- 
yond a  life  he  had  so  shamefully  misused.  But  it  was 
only  a  temporary  repentance ;  and  when  he  left  the 
religious  house,  he  again  rushed  furiously  into  every 
kind  of  dissipation. 

At  length,  utterly  reduced  to  the  last  extremities,  he 
bethought  himself  of  his  colonelcy  in  Spain,  and  deter- 
mined to  set  out  to  join  his  regiment.  The  following 
letter  from  a  friend  who  accompanied  him  will  best 
show  what  circumstances  he  was  in  : — 

"Paris,  June  1,  1729. 
"Dear    Sir, — T   am   just  returned   from   the   Gates 


SAD  DAYS  IN    TAKIS.  207 

of  Dcatli,  to  return  ymi  Tliaiiks  for  your  last  kind 
Letter  of  Accusations,  ^vliirli  I  am  persuaded  was 
intended  as  a  seasonable  Ilelj)  to  my  llecollcction, 
at  a  Time  that  it  was  necessary  lor  me  to  send  an 
Iiii|iiisitor  General  into  my  Conscience,  to  examine 
and  settle  all  the  Abuses  that  ever  were  committed  in 
tliat  little  Court  of  Equity  ;  but  I  assure  you,  your 
long  Letter  did  not  lay  so  much   my  Faults    as    my 

Misfortunes  before  me,  which  believe  me,  dear  , 

have    fallen    as    heavy  and  as  thick  upon  me  as  the 

Shower  of  Ilail   upon   us  two  in   E Forest,  and 

has  left  me  much  at  a  Loss  which  way  to  tui-n  myself. 
The  Pilot  of  the  Ship  I  embarked  in,  who  industriously 
ran  upon  every  Rock,  has  at  last  split  the  Vessel,  and 
so  iiHu-li  of  a  sudden,  tliat  tlie  whole  Crew,  I  mean  his 
Domesticks,  are  all  left  to  swim  for  their  Lives,  without 
one  friendly  Plank  to  assist  them  to  Shore.  Li  short, 
he  left  me  sick,  in  Debt,  and  without  a  Penny  ;  but  as 
I  begin  to  recover,  and  have  a  little  time  to  Think,  I 
can't  help  considering  myself,  as  one  whisk'd  up  behind 
a  Witch  upon  a  Broomstick,  and  hurried  over  ^Moun- 
tains  and  Dales  through  confus'd  AVoods  and  thorny 
Thickets,  and  when  the  Charm  is  ended,  and  the  poor 
Wretch  dropp'd  in  a  Desart,  he  can  give  no  other  Ac- 
count of  his  enchanted  Travels,  but  that  he  is  nnich 
fatiirued  in  r>odv  and  ^lind,  his  Cloaths  torn,  and 
worse  in  all  other  Circumstances,  without  being  of 
the  least  Service  to  himself  or  any  body  else.  But 
I  will  follow  your  Advice  with  an  active  Resolution, 


2G8  HIS  LAST  JOURNEY   TO  SPAIN. 

to  I'etrievc  my  bad  Fortune,  and  almost  a  Year  mis- 
erably misspent. 

"  But  notwithstanding  what  I  have  suffered,  and 
what  my  Brother  Mad-man  has  done  to  undo  himself, 
and  every  body  who  was  so  unlucky  to  luive  the  least 
Concern  with  him,  I  could  not  but  be  movingly  touch'd 
at  so  extraordinary  a  Vicissitude  of  Fortune,  to  see  a 
great  Man  fallen  from  that  shining  Light,  in  which  I 
beheld  him  in  the  House  of  Lords,  to  such  a  Degree 
of  Obscurity,  that  I  have  observ'd  the  meanest  Com- 
moner here  decline,  and  the  Few  he  would  sometimes 
fasten  on,  to  be  tired  of  his  Company  ;  for  you  know 
he  is  but  a  bad  Orator  in  his  Cups,  and  of  late  he  has 
been  but  seldom  sober. 

"  A  week  before  he  left  Paris,  he  was  so  reduced, 
that  he  had  not  one  single  Crown  at  Command,  and 
Avas  forc'd  to  thrust  in  with  any  Acquaintance  for 
a  Lodgino; ;  Walsh  and  I  have  had  him  by  Turns, 
all  to  avoid  a  Crowd  of  Duns,  which  he  lia<l  of  all 
Sizes,  from  Fourteen  hundred  Livres  to  Four,  wlio 
hunted  him  so  close,  that  he  was  forced  to  retire  to 
some  of  the  neighboring  A^illages  for  Safety.  I,  sick 
as  I  was,  hurried  almut  Paris  to  raise  Money,  and 
to  St.  Germain's  to  get  him  Linen  ;  I  bought  him  one 
Shirt  and  a  Cravat,  which  with  500  Livres,  his  whole 
Stock,  he  and  his  Duchess,  attended  by  one  Servant, 
set  out  for  Spain.  All  tlie  News  I  have  heard  of  them 
since  is  that  a  Day  or  two  after,  he  sent  for  Captain 
Brierlv,  and  two  or  throe  of  his  Domesticks,  to  follow 


Ills   ACTIVITY   OF   MIND.  269 

liini  ;  but  none  but  the  Captain  obey'd  the  Summons. 
Where  they  are  now,  I  can't  tell,  but  fear  they  must 
be  in  great  Distress  by  this  Time,  if  he  has  no  other 
Suj)plies  ;  and  so  ends  my  Mehmcholy  Story. 

"  I  am,  etc." 

Still  his  good-humor  did  not  desert  him  ;  he  joked 
about  their  poverty  on  the  road,  and  wrote  an  amusing 
account  of  tlieir  journe}'  to  a  friend,  winding  up  with 
the  well-known  lines  : — 

"  Be  kind  to  my  remains,  and  oh !  defend, 
Against  your  judgment,  your  departed  friend." 

Ilis  mind  was  as  vigorous  as  ever,  in  spite  of  the 
waste  of  many  debaiu  lies  ;  and  when  recommended  to 
make  a  new  transLitiou  of  '•  Telemachus,"  he  actually 
devoted  one  whole  dav  to  the  work  ;  the  next  he  forgot 
all  about  it.  In  the  same  manner  he  began  a  play  on 
the  story  of  ^Nlary,  Queen  of  Scots,  and  Lady  M.  AV. 
Montagu  Avrote  an  epilogue  for  it,  but  the  piece  never 
got  beyond  a  few  scenes.  His  genius,  perhaps,  was 
not  for  either  poetry  or  the  drama.  Ilis  mind  was 
a  keen,  clear  one,  better  suited  to  argument  and  to 
gra]iple  tough  j)olemic  subjects.  Had  he  but  been 
a  sober  mnn.  he  might  have  been  a  foir,  if  not  a  great 
writer.  The  ''  True  Briton,"  Avitli  many  faults  of 
license,  shows  what  his  capabilities  were.  His  absence 
of  moral  sense  may  be  guessed  from  his  poem  on  the 


270  HIS  DEATH  IN   A  CONVENT. 

preaching  of  Atterbury,  in  which  is  a  parallel  almost 
blasphemous. 

At  leno-th  he  reached  Bilboa  and  his  regiment,  and 
had  to  live  on  the  meagre  pay  of  eighteen  pistoles  a 
month.  The  Duke  of  Ormond,  then  an  exile,  took 
pity  on  his  -wife,  and  supported  her  for  a  time :  she 
afterwards  rejoined  her  mother  at  Madrid. 

Meanwhile,  the  year  1730  brought  about  a  salutary 
chantre  in  the  duke's  morals.  His  health  was  fast 
giving  way  from  the  eifects  of  divers  excesses ;  and 
there  is  nothing  like  bad  health  for  purging  a  bad 
soul.  The  end  of  a  misspent  life  was  flist  drawing 
near,  and  he  could  only  keep  it  up  by  broth  with  eggs 
beaten  up  in  it.  lie  lost  the  use  of  his  limbs,  but  not 
of  his  gayety.  In  the  mountains  of  Catalonia  he  met 
with  a  mineral  spring  which  did  him  some  good  ;  so 
much,  in  fact,  that  he  was  able  to  rejoin  his  regiment 
for  a  time.  A  fresh  attack  sent  him  back  to  the 
waters  ;  but  on  his  way  he  was  so  violently  attacked 
that  he  was  forced  to  stop  at  a  little  village.  Here  he 
found  himself  without  the  means  of  ji'oino;  f;irtlier, 
and  in  the  worst  state  of  health.  The  monks  of  a 
]]ernardine  convent  took  pity  on  him  and  received 
him  into  tlieir  house.  He  grew  worse  and  worse; 
and  in  a  week  died  on  the  31st  of  May,  witliout  a 
friend  to  pity  or  attend  him,  among  strangers,  and  at 
the  early  age  of  thirty-two. 

Tlius  ended    the  life  of   one  of  the  cleverest  fools 
that  have  ever  disgraced  our  iieerajje. 

O  1  O 


:?)oi)u,  ilovti  il)rvliri). 


LORD    HERVEY. 

Tin:  villa":c  of  Kcnsino;ton  Avas  disturlicl  in  its 
sweet  rej»()se  one  day,  more  than  a  centui-y  :i;:o,  l»y 
tlie  rumljliiiii-  of  a  ])on(lerous  coach  ami  six,  witli  four 
outriders  and  tAvo  equerries  kicking  up  the  thist ; 
■whilst  a  small  body  of  heavy  dragoons  rode  solemnly 
after  the  huge  vehicle.  It  -waded,  with  inglorious 
stru2[<nrles,  through  a  deei)  mire  of  mud,  between  the 
Palace  and  Hyde  Turk,  until  the  cortege  entered 
Kensington  Park,  as  the  gardens  were  then  called, 
and  beiran  to  track  the  old  road  that  led  to  the  red- 
brick  structure  to  which  William  111.  liad  added  a 
hicrher  story,  built  by  Wren.  There  are  tAvo  roads  by 
which  coaches  could  approach  the  house:  ''one,"  as 
the  famous  John,  Lord  Ilervcy,  wrote  to  his  mother, 
"so  convex,  the  other  so  concave,  that,  by  this  ex- 
treme of  faults,  tliey  agree  in  the  connnon  one  of 
being,  hkc  tlie  high-i-oad,  inipassa1)le."  The  rum- 
bling coaeh,  with  its  j)letli<)ric  steeds,  toils  sloAvly  on, 
and  readies  the  dismal  pile,  of  which  no  association 
is  so  precious  as  that  of  its  having  been  the  birth- 
place of  our  loved  Mctoria  Regina.  All  around,  as 
the  end)lazoned  earriage  impressively  veers  round 
into    the    grand    entrance,    savors    of    William     and 

271 


272      GEORGE  II.  ARRIVIXG   FROM   HANOVER. 

INIary,  of  Anne,  of  Bishop  Burnet  and  Harley,  Atter- 
bury  and  Bolingbroke.  But  those  were  pleasant  days 
compared  to  those  of  the  second  George,  whose  return 
from  Hanover  in  this  mountain  of  a  coach  is  now 
described. 

The  panting  steeds  arc  gracefully  curbed  by  the 
state  coachman  in  his  scarlet  livery,  Avith  his  cocked- 
hat  and  gray  wig  underneath  it :  now  the  horses  are 
foaming  and  reeking  as  if  they  had  come  from  the 
world's  end  to  Kensington,  and  yet  they  have  only 
been  to  meet  King  Georo-e  on  his  entrance  into  Lon- 
don,  Avhich  he  has  reached  from  Helvoetsluys,  on  his 
way  from  Hanover,  in  time,  as  he  expects,  to  spend  his 
birthday  among  his  English  subjects. 

It  is  Sunday,  and  repose  renders  the  retirement  of 
Kensington  and  its  avenues  and  shades  more  sombre 
tliiin  ever.  Suburban  retirement  is  usually  so.  It  is 
noon;  and  the  inmates  of  Kensington  Palace  are  just 
coming  forth  from  the  chapel  in  the  palace.  The 
coach  is  now  stopping,  and  the  equerries  are  at  hand 
to  offer  their  respectful  assistance  to  the  diminutive 
figure  that,  in  full  Field-marshal  regimentals,  a  cocked- 
hat  stuck  cross-wise  on  his  head,  a  sword  dangling;  even 
doAvn  to  his  heels,  ungraciously  heeds  them  not,  but 
stepping  down,  as  the  great  iron  gates  arc  thrown  open 
to  receive  him,  looks  neither  like  a  kino;  nor  a  gentle- 
man.  A  thin,  worn  face,  in  which  weakness  and 
passion  are  at  once  pictured ;  a  form  buttoned  and 
padded  up  to  the  chin;  high  Hessian  boots  without  a 


HIS  >n:KTiNG  with  the  queen.        273 

Avriiikle  ;  a  swonl  :iii<l  a  swagfj^er,  no  more  constituting 
liiiii  tlie  niilitarv  cliaractci'  than  t lie  "  your  Majesty  " 
iVdiii  every  lip  can  make  a  poor  thing  of  clay  a  king. 
Such  was  (leorge  II.  :  hrutal,  even  to  his  submissive 
Nvitc.  Stunted  by  nature,  he  was  insignificant  in  form, 
as  he  was  petty  in  charactei' ;  not  a  trace  of  royalty 
could  be  found  in  that  silly,  tempestuous  physiognomy, 
with  its  hereditary  small  head  :  not  an  atom  of  it  in 
his  made-up,  paltry  little  presence;  still  less  in  his 
bearing,   language,   or  ((ualities. 

The  queen  and  her  couit  have  come  from  chapel,  to 
meet  the  roval  absentee  at  the  great  gate:  the  consort, 
who  was  to  his  gracious  Majesty  like  an  elder  sister 
rather  than  a  wife,  bends  down,  not  to  his  knees,  but 
yet  she  bends,  to  kiss  the  hand  of  her  royal  husband. 
She  is  a  fair,  fat  woman,  no  longer  young,  scarcely 
comely  ;  but  with  a  charm  of  manners,  a  composure, 
and  a  sai'oir  faire  that  causes  one  to  regard  her  as 
mated,  not  matched  to  the  little  creature  in  that  cocked- 
hat,  which  he  does  not  take  off  even  when  she  stands 
before  liim.  The  pair,  nevertheless,  embrace:  it  is  a 
triennial  ceremony  performed  when  the  king  goes  or 
returns  from  Hanover,  l)ut  suffered  to  lapse  at  other 
times ;  but  the  condescension  is  too  great :  and  Caro- 
line ends,  where  she  began  :  "  glueing  her  lips  "  to  the 
ungracious  hand  held  out  to  her  in  evident  ill-humor. 

They  turn,  and  walk  through  the  court,  then  up  the 

grand  staircase,  into  the  queen's  apartment.     The  king 

has   been  swearing  all   tlie  way  at   England  and   the 
Vol.  I.— is 


274  MRS.  CLAYTON. 

English,  because  he  has  been  oblio-eJ  to  return  from 
Hanover,  where  the  German  mode  of  life  and  new  mis- 
tresses were  more  agreeable  to  him  than  the  English 
customs  and  an  old  wife.  He  displays,  therefore,  even 
on  this  supposed  happy  occasion,  one  of  the  worst  out- 
breaks of  his  insufferable  temper,  of  which  the  queen 
is  the  first  victim.  All  the  company  in  the  palace, 
both  ladies  and  gentlemen,  are  ordered  to  enter :  he 
talks  to  them  all,  but  to  the  queen  he  says  not  a 
word. 

She  is  attended  by  Mrs.  Clayton,  afterwards  Lady 
Sundon,  whose  lively  manners  and  great  good  temper 
and  good  will — lent  out  like  leasehold  to  all,  till  she 
saw  what  their  friendship  might  bring, — are  always 
useful  at  these  tristcs  7'encontres.  ]Mrs.  Clayton  is  the 
amalgamating  substance  between  chemical  agents  which 
have,  of  themselves,  no  cohesion ;  she  covers  with  ad- 
dress what  is  awkward ;  she  smooths  down  with  some- 
thing pleasant  what  is  rude ;  she  turns  off — and  her 
office  in  that  respect  is  no  sinecure  at  that  court — what 
is  indecent,  so  as  to  keep  the  small  majority  of  the 
company  who  have  respectable  notions  in  good  humor. 
To  the  right  of  Queen  Caroline  stands  another  of  her 
Majesty's  household,  to  whom  the  most  deferential 
attention  is  paid  by  nil  ])reseut ;  nevertheless,  she  is 
queen  of  the  court,  but  not  the  queen  of  the  royal 
master  of  that  court.  It  is  Lady  Suffolk,  the  mistress 
of  King  George  II.,  and  long  mistress  of  the  robes  to 
Queen  Caroline.     She  is  now  past  the  bloom  of  youth, 


I.AItY  SUFFOLK.  275 

Ijiil  licr  ;ill  I'acI  iiiii<  arc  \\n\  in  their  wane:  Init  ciiiliircMl 
until  slic  hail  allaiiird  h<i'  scvciil  v-niiith  year.  Of  !i 
luitldle  hoighl,  well  iiiaih',  cxtrcincly  lair,  witli  very 
fine  liiiht  hair,  she  attracts  rc<far<l  from  her  swct't,  fresh 
face,  which  liad  in  it  a  comeliness  independent  of  reiru- 
laritv  of  feature.  According  to  her  invariable  custom, 
she  is  dressed  with  siiii|ilicit_v  :  lier  silky  tresses  are 
drawn  somewhat  1>ack  IVoiu  her  snowy  forehead,  and 
fdl  ill  lonii:  tresses  on  her  shouhlers,  not  less  transpar- 
ently white.  She  wears  a  gown  of  rich  silk,  oj)ening 
in  front  to  display  a  chemisette  of  the  most  delicate 
cambric,  which  is  scarcely  less  delicate  than  her  skin. 
Iler  slender  arms  are  without  bracelets,  and  her  tajjcr 
fingers  without  rings.  As  she  stands  behind  the  queen, 
holding  her  Majesty's  fiii  and  gloves,  she  is  obliged, 
from  her  deafness,  to  lean  her  fair  face  with  its  sunny 
hair  first  to  the  right  side,  then  to  the  left,  Avith  the 
helpless  air  of  one  exceedingly  deaf — for  she  has  been 
afflicted  wi til  tliat  infirmity  for  some  years:  yet  one 
cannot  say  whether  her  appealing  looks,  Avhich  seem  to 
say,  "Enlighten  me  if  you  please,' — and  the  sort  of 
softened  manner  in  wliich  she  accepts  civilities  which 
she  scarcely  comprehends,  do  not  enhance  the  wonderful 
charm  which  drew  eveiy  one  who  knew  her  towards 
this  frail,   but  passionless  Avoman. 

The  queen  forms  the  centre  of  the  group.  Caroline, 
daughter  of  the  Maivpiis  of  Brandenburg-Anspach, 
notwithstanding  her  residence  in  England  of  many 
years,  notwithstanding  her  ha\ing  been,  at  the  era  at 


276  QUEEN  CAEOLINE. 

Avliicli  tliis  biography  begins,  ten  years  its  queen — is 
still  German  in  every  attribute.  She  retains,  in  her 
fair  and  comely  face,  traces  of  having  been  handsome ; 
but  her  skin  is  deeply  scarred  by  the  cruel  small-pox. 
She  is  now  at  that  time  of  life  when  Sir  Robert  Wal- 
pole  even  thought  it  expedient  to  reconcile  her  to  no 
longer  being  an  object  of  attraction  to  her  royal  con- 
sort. As  a  woman,  she  has  ceased  to  be  attractive  to 
a  man  of  the  character  of  George  II.  ;  Init,  as  a  queen, 
she  is  still,  as  far  as  manners  are  concerned,  incompar- 
able. As  she  turns  to  address  various  members  of  the 
assembly,  her  style  is  full  of  sweetness  as  well  as  of 
courtesy,  yet  on  other  occasions  she  is  majesty  itself. 
The  tones  of  her  voice,  with  its  still  foreign  accent,  arc 
most  captivating ;  her  eyes  penetrate  into  every  coun- 
tenance on  which  they  rest.  Her  figure,  jjlump  and 
matronly,  has  lost  much  of  its  contour ;  Init  is  well 
suited  for  her  port.  Majesty  in  wenien  should  be 
cruhonpoint.  Her  hands  are  beautifully  white,  and 
f  lultless  in  shape.  The  king  always  admired  her  ])ust ; 
and  it  is,  therefore,  by  royal  command,  tolerably  ex- 
posed. Her  fair  hair  is  upraised  in  full  short  curls 
over  her  brow  :  her  dress  is  rich,  and  distinguished  in 
that  respect  from  that  of  the  Countess  of  Suffolk. — 
"Her  good  Howard" — as  she  was  wont  to  call  her, 
Avhen,  before  her  elevation  to  the  peerage,  she  was  lady 
of  the  bedchamber  to  Caroline, — had,  when  in  tluit 
capacity,  been  often  subjected  to  servile  offices,  which 
the  (jueen,  tliougli  apologizing  in  the  sweetest  manner, 


SIR  ROBERT   WALPOLE.  277 

(leli-,'lite(l  to  make  her  perform.  "  My  good  Howard  " 
havin""  one  dav  iilaccil  a  liandkerchief  on  tlie  back  of 
her  royal  mistress,  the  king,  -who  lialf  woi-sliipped  his 
intellectual  wife,  pulled  it  ofl'  in  a  ]>assion,  saying, 
"•  Because  you  have  an  ugly  neck  yourself,  you  hide  the 
queen's  !"  All,  however,  that  evening  was  smooth  as 
ice,  and  perhaps  as  cold  also.  The  company  are  quickly 
dismissed,  and  the  king,  who  has  scarcely  spoken  to 
tlie  fpieen,  retires  to  his  closet,  where  he  is  attended 
by  the  subservient  Caroline,  and  by  two  other  persons. 
Sir  Robert  Walpole,  prime  minister,  has  accompanied 
the  kinji;  in  his  carriao;e,  from  the  very  entrance  of 
London,  where  the  famous  statesman  met  him.  lie  is 
now  the  privileged  companion  of  their  Majesties,  in 
their  seclusion  for  the  rest  of  the  evening.  His  cheer- 
ful face,  in  its  fidl  evenin;]:;  disguise  of  wio;  and  tie,  his 
invariable  good  humor,  his  frank  manners,  his  wonder- 
ful sense,  his  views,  more  practical  than  elevated,  suffi- 
ciently account  for  the  influence  which  this  celebrated 
minister  obtained  over  Queen  Caroline,  and  the  readi- 
ness of  King  George  to  siilmiit  to  the  tie.  But  Sir 
Roberts  great  source  of  ascendancy  was  his  temper. 
Never  Ava^  thei'o  in  tlie  annals  of  our  country  a  min- 
ister so  free  of  access:  so  obliirinn;  in  irivinc;,  so  un- 
offendina;  when  he  refused  ;  so  indulgent  and  kind  to 
those  dependent  on  him  ;  so  generous,  so  faithful  to  his 
friends,  so  forgiving  to  his  foes.  This  w\'is  his  cha- 
racter under  one  phase  :  even  his  adherents  sometimes 
blamed  his  easiness  of  temper;   tlio  im}»ossibility  in  his 


27S  A  STATESMAN'S  LAST  DAYS. 

nature  to  cherish  the  rcmcmhrance  of  a  wrong,  or  even 
to  be  roused  by  an  insult.  But,  whilst  such  Avere  the 
amiable  traits  of  his  character,  history  has  its  lists  of 
accusations  against  him  for  corruption  of  the  most 
shameless  description.  The  end  of  this  veteran  states- 
man's career  is  well  known.  Tlie  fraudulent  contracts 
Avhich  he  gave,  the  peculation  and  profusion  of  the 
secret  service  money,  his  undue  influence  at  elections, 
brought  around  his  later  life  a  storm,  from  which  he 
retreated  into  the  Upper  House,  when  created  Earl  of 
Orford.  It  Avas  before  this  timely  retirement  from 
office  that  he  burst  forth  in  these  words  :  "  I  oppose 
nothing  ;  give  in  to  everything  ;  am  said  to  do  eveiy- 
thing;  and  to  answer  for  everything;  and  yet,  God 
knows,   I  dare  not  do  what  I   think    is   right." 

"With  his  public  capacity,  however,  we  have  not  here 
to  do  :  it  is  in  his  character  of  a  courtier  that  we  view 
him  following  the  ({ueen  and  king.  Ilis  round,  com- 
placent face,  with  his  small  glistening  eyes,  arched 
eyebrows,  and  with  a  mouth  ready  to  In-eak  out 
aloiul  into  a  laugh,  arc  all  sulxlued  into  a  respect- 
ful gravity  as  he  listens  to  King  George  grum))ling 
at  the  necessity  for  his  return  home.  No  English 
cook  could  di-ess  a  dinner ;  no  Endish  cook  could 
select  a  dessert;  no  English  coachman  coidd  drive, 
nor  English  jockey  ride;  no  Englishman — such  were 
his  habitual  taunts — knew  how  to  come  into  a  room  ; 
no  Englishwoman  understood  how  to  dress  herself 
The  men,   he  said,   talked   of   nothincr    but   their  dull 


LORD  IIERVEY.  270 

politics,  ;uul  tlie  ■women  of  notliing  but  their  u;^ly 
clothes.  Where.is.  in  Hanover,  all  these  thin^^s  were 
at  perfection :  men  were  patterns  of  politeness  and 
gallantry  ;  women,  of  beauty,  "wit,  ami  entertainment. 
His  troops  thei-e  were  the  bravest  in  tlie  world;  his 
m.iiiiifjicturiTs  the  most  in<renious ;  his  people  the 
happiest:  in  Hanover,  in  short,  plenty  rei<^ned,  riches 
flowed,  arts  lloiirislu'd,  magnificence  abounded,  every- 
thing was  in  abundance  that  could  make  a  prince  great 
or  a  people  blessed. 

There  was  one  standing  behind  the  queen  who 
listened  to  these  outbreaks  of  the  king's  bilious 
temper,  as  he  cnlleil  it,  witli  an  apparently  respect- 
ful solicitude,  I)ut  with  the  deepest  disgust  in  his 
heart.  A  slender,  elegant  figure,  in  a  court  suit, 
faultlessly  and  carefully  perfect  in  that  costume,  stands 
behind  the  queen's  chaii-.  It  is  Lord  Herve^^  His 
lofty  forehead,  his  features,  which  have  a  refinement 
of  character,  his  well-turned  mouth,  and  full  and 
dimpled  chin,  form  his  claims  to  that  beauty  which 
■won  tlie  heart  of  the  lovely  Mary  Lepel  ;  whilst  the 
somewhat  thoughtful  and  pensive  expression  of  his 
physiognomy,  when  in  repose,  indicated  the  sympa- 
tliizing,  3''et,  at  tlie  same  time,  satirical  cliaracter 
of  one  who  won  the  affections,  perhaps  unconsciously, 
of  the  amiable  Princess  Caroline,  the  favorite  daugh- 
ter of  George  II. 

A  general  air  of  languor,  ill  concealed  by  the  most 
studied  artifice  of  countenance,  and  even  of  posture, 


280  THE  MACARONI. 

characterizes  Lord  Hervey.  He  would  have  abhorred 
robustness ;  for  he  belonged  to  the  clupie  then  called 
Macaronis ;  a  set  of  fine  gentlemen,  of  whom  the 
present  world  Avould  not  he  worthy,  tricked  out  for 
show,  fitted  only  to  drive  out  fading  majesty  in  a 
stage-coach  ;  exquisite  in  every  personal  append- 
age, too  fine  for  the  common  usages  of  society ; 
point-device,  not  only  in  every  curl  and  ruffle,  but  in 
every  attitude  and  step  ;  men  with  full  satin  roses  on 
their  shinino-  shoes ;  diamond  tablet  rin2:s  on  ihcir 
forefingers  ;  with  snuflF-boxes,  the  worth  of  which 
might  almost  purchase  a  farm  ;  lace  worked  by  the 
delicate  fingers  of  some  religious  recluse  of  an  ances- 
tress, and  taken  from  an  altar-cloth  ;  old  point-lace, 
dark  as  coffee-water  could  make  it ;  with  embroidered 
waistcoats,  w^'cathed  in  cx([uisite  tambour-work  round 
each  capricious  lappet  and  pocket ;  with  cut  steel  but- 
tons that  glistened  beneath  the  courtly  wax-lights : 
Avith  these  and  fifty  other  small  l»ut  costly  character- 
istics that  established  the  reputation  of  an  aspirant 
Macaroni.  Lord  Hervey  was,  in  truth,  an  effeminate 
creature  :  too  dainty  to  walk  ;  too  precious  to  commit 
his  frame  to  horseback  ;  and  prone  to  imitate  the  some- 
what recluse  habits  which  the  German  rulers  introduced 
within  the  court:  he  was  disposed  to  candle-light  pleas- 
ures and  cockney  diversions;  to  Marybone  and  the 
Mall,  and  shrinkini;;  from  the  athletic  and  social  rec- 
reations  which,  like  so  much  that  was  manly  and 
English,   were  confined  almost  to  the  English  squire 


LORD  HERVEY'S  ANCESTRY.  281 

pur  et  simple  after  tlie  ITanoverian  accession  ;  wlion 
so  iiiiicli  degeneracy  for  a  while  obscured  the  English 
character,  debased  its  tone,  enervated  its  best  races, 
vilified  its  literature,  corrupted  its  morals,  changed  its 
costume,  and  degraded  its  architecture. 

Beneath  the  eifcminacy  of  the  Macaroni,  Lord  Iler- 
vcy  was  one  of  the  few  who  united  to  mtense  Jinert/  in 
every  minute  detail,  an  acute  and  cultivatci]  intellect. 
To  perfect  a  Macaroni  it  was  in  tnitli  advisaldc,  if  not 
essential,  to  unite  some  smattering  of  learning,  a  pre- 
tension to  wit,  to  his  super-dandyism  ;  to  be  the  author 
of  some  personal  squib,  or  the  translator  of  some  classic. 
Queen  Caroline  was  too  cultivated  herself  to  suffer  fools 
about  her,  and  Lord  TTervey  was  a  man  after  her  own 
taste;  as  a  courtier  he  was  essentially  a  fine  gentle- 
man; and,  more  than  that,  lie  coidil  be  the  most  de- 
liu-htful  companion,  the  most  sensible  adviser,  and  the 
most  winning  friend  in  the  court.  His  ill-health, 
wliicli  lie  carefully  concealed,  his  fiistidiousness,  his 
ultra-dflic-acv  of  h:il)its,  fornieil  an  agreeable  contrast 
to  the  coar^^e  rol)ustness  of '' Sir  Rol)ert,"  and  consti- 
tuted a  relief  after  the  society  of  the  vulgar,  strong- 
minded  minister,  who  was  l)orn  for  tlie  hustings  and 
the  House  of  Commons  rather  than  for  the  courtly 
drawing-room. 

John,  Loiil  ITervey,  long  vice-chamberlain  to  Queen 
Cai-olinc,  was,  like  Sir  Robert  Waljiole,  descended  from 
a  commoner's  family,  one  of  those  good  old  S((nii\'-^  wlio 
lived,  as  Sir  Henry  Wotton  says,  ■■'  without  lustre  and 


282  AN   ECCENTRIC   RACE. 

without  obscurity."  The  Duchess  of  Marlborough  had 
procured  the  elevation  of  the  Herveys  of  Ickworth  to 
the  peerage.  She  happened  to  be  intimate  with  Sir 
Thomas  Fclton,  the  fiither  of  Mrs.  Hervey,  afterwards 
Lady  Bristol,  whose  husband,  at  first  ci'eated  Lord 
Hervey,  and  afterwards  Earl  of  Bristol,  exj^ressed  his 
obligations  bv  rctaininri;  as  his  motto,  when  raised  to 
the  peerage,  the  words  "  Je  n'oublieray  jamais,"  in 
allusion  to  the  service  done  him  by  the  Duke  and 
Duchess  of  Marlborough. 

The  Herveys  had  always  been  an  eccentric  race ; 
and  the  classification  of  "  men,  women,  and  Herveys," 
by  Lady  Mary  Wortley  Montagu,  Avas  not  more  witty 
than  true.  There  was  in  the  whole  race  an  eccentricity 
which  bordered  on  the  ridiculous,  but  did  not  imply 
Avant  of  sense  or  of  talent.  Indeed  this  third  species, 
"the  Herveys,"  were  more  gifted  than  the  generality 
of  'Mnen  and  women."  The  father  of  Lord  Hervey 
had  been  a  country  gentleman  of  good  fortune,  living 
at  Ickworth,  near  Bury  in  Suffolk,  and  representing 
the  town  in  Parliament,  us  his  father  liad  Ijefore  him, 
until  raised  to  tlie  peerage.  Before  that  elevation  he 
had  lived  on  in  liis  own  county,  uniting  the  character 
of  the  English  scpiire,  in  that  fox-hunting  county,  with 
that  of  a  perfect  gentleman,  a  scholar,  and  a  most  ad- 
mirable member  of  society.  He  was  a  poet,  also, 
affecting  the  style  of  Cowley,  wlio  wrote  an  elegy  upon 
his  uncle,  William  Hervey,  an  elegy  companMl  to  Mil- 
ton's  "  Lycidas "   in  imagery,   music,   and  tenderness 


CAKR,    LORD   IIKRVEY.  283 

of  tliou'Jiilit.  The  shade  of  Cowlcv,  •wliom  Cliarlcs  IT. 
pronounct'tl,  ,it  his  death,  to  be  "  the  best  rnnn  in  Kii;;- 
hiiid.  "  haunted  this  peer,  the  first  Earl  of  Bristol,  lie 
:is|)iri'd  cspeeially  to  the  jmet's  2cit ;  and  the  ambition 
to  be  a  \\it  lU'W  like  wildfire  among  his  family,  espe- 
cially infeetitii:-  his  two  sons,  Carr,  the  elder  brother  of 
the  subject  <»f'  this  memoir,  and  Lord  llervey. 

It  would  have  been  well  could  the  Earl  of  Bristol 
have  transmitted  to  his  sons  his  other  qualities.  He 
"was  pious,  moral,  affectionate,  sincere  ;  a  consistent 
Whig  of  the  old  school,  and,  as  such,  disapproving  of 
Sir  Robert  Walpole,  of  the  standing  army,  the  corrup- 
tions, and  that  doctrine  of  expediency  so  unblushingly 
avowed  l)y  tlu>  ministers. 

Created  Earl  of  Bristol  in  1714,  the  heir-apparent 
to  his  titles  and  estates  was  the  elder  brother,  by  a 
former  marriage,  of  John,  Lord  llervey  ;  the  dissolute, 
clever,  Avhimsical  Carr,  Lord  llervey.  Pope,  in  one 
of  his  satirical  appeals  to  the  second  Lord  llervey, 
speaks  of  his  friendship  -with  Carr,  "  whose  early  death 
deprived  the  family  "  (of  llervey)  "  of  as  much  wit  and 
honor  as  he  left  behind  him  in  any  part  of  it."  The 
ivit  was  a  familv  attril)ute,  but  the  honor  was  dul)ious  : 
Carr  was  as  deistical  as  any  Macaroni  of  the  day.  and, 
perhaps,  more  dissolute  than  most :  in  one  respect  he 
has  left  beliin<l  him  a-  celebrity  which  may  be  as  ques- 
tionable as  his  wit,  or  his  honor ;  he  is  reputed  to  be  the 
father  of  Horace  "Walpole,  and  if  we  accept  presumptive 
evidence  of  the  fact,  the  statement  is  clearlv  borne  out, 


284  A  FRAGILE  BOY. 

for  in  his  wit,  his  indifference  to  religion,  to  snv  the 
least,  his  satirical  turn,  his  love  of  the  world,  and  his 
contempt  of  all  that  was  great  and  good,  he  strongly 
resembles  his  reputed  son  ;  whilst  the  levity  of  Lady 
Walpole's  character,  and  Sir  Robert's  laxity  and  dis- 
soluteness, do  not  furnish  any  reasonable  doubt  to  the 
statement  made  by  Lady  Louisa  Stuart,  in  the  intro- 
duction to  Lord  "VVharncliffe's  "  Life  of  Lady  INIary 
Wortlev  Montagu."  Carr,  Lord  Ilervcv,  died  early, 
and  his  half-brother  succeeded  him  in  his  title  and 
expectations. 

John,  Lord  Hervey,  was  educated  first  at  "Westmin- 
ster School,  under  Dr.  Freind,  tlie  fi-icnd  of  Mrs. 
Montagu  ;  tliencc  he  was  removed  to  Clare  Hall, 
Cambridge :  he  graduated  as  a  noblcnum,  and  Ijc- 
camc  M.  A.  in  171"). 

At  Cambridge  Lord  Ilervey  might  have  ac([uired 
some  manly  prowess  ;  but  he  liad  a  mother  who  Avas 
as  strange  as  tlie  family  into  which  she  liad  married, 
and  wlio  was  passionately  devoted  to  her  son  :  slic 
evinced  her  affection  b}'  never  letting  liim  Jiave  a 
chance  of  being  like  other  English  boys.  When  his 
fiither  Avas  at  NcAvmarket,  Jack  Hervey,  as  he  was 
called,  was  to  ride  a  race,  to  please  his  father;  but 
liis  moflier  could  not  I'isk  lier  dear  boy's  safety,  and 
tlie  r;ice  ^vas  Avon  by  a  jockey.  lie  Avas  as  precious 
:iu(l  as  fragile  as  porcelain:  the  elder  brother's  denth 
made  the  heir  of  the  Herveys  more  valualJe,  more 
effeminnte.    ;md    more    controlled    than    ever     ])V    liis 


A   BrTTERFLY   EXISTENCE.  285 

eccentric  rnotlier.  A  court  amis  to  Ite  liis  lienii- 
splicre,  and  to  that  all  liis  views,  early  in  life,  tended. 
He  went  to  Hanover  to  pay  liis  court  to  Geor^^e  I.  : 
Carr  liad  done  the  same,  and  had  come  l)a(d<  eii- 
chanted  with  (ieorge,  the  lieir-presuniptive,  who  made 
liini  one  of  the  h)rds  of  the  hedchaniher.  Jack  Iler- 
ve_y  also  returned  full  of  enthusiam  for  the  Prince  of 
Wales,  afterwards  George  II.,  and  the  i'rincess;  and 
that  visit  influenced  his  destiny. 

He  now  projjosed  making  tlie  grand  tour,  which 
comprised  Paris,  Germany,  and  Italy.  But  liis 
mother  again  interfere<l :  she  wept,  she  exhorted, 
she  prevailed.  Means  were  refused,  and  the  strip- 
ling was  recalled  to  hang  about  the  court,  or  to  loiter 
at  Ickworth,  scribbling  verses,  and  causing  his  fatlier 
uneasiness  lest  lie  should  be  too  much  of  a  poet,  and 
too  little  of  a  public  man. 

Such  was  his  youth  :  di.sappointed  by  not  obtaining 
a  commission  in  the  Guards,  he  led  a  desultory  but- 
terfl^'-like  life ;  one  day  at  Richmond  with  Queen 
Caroline,  then  Princess  of  Wales  ;  another,  at  Pope's 
villa  at  Twickenham ;  sometimes  in  the  House  of 
Commons,  in  which  he  succeeded  his  elder  brother 
as  member  for  Bury ;  and,  at  the  period  when  he 
has  been  described  as  forming  one  of  the  quartett  in 
Queen  Caroline's  closet  at  St.  James's,  as  vice-cham- 
berlain to  his  partial  and  royal  patroness. 

His  early  marriage  with  Mary  Lepel,  the  beautiful 
maid  of  honor  to  Queen  Caroline,  insured  his  felicity, 


28G  GEORGE  II.'S  FAMILY. 

though    it    did    not    curb    his    predilections    for  otlier 
ladies. 

Henceforth  Lord  Ilervey  lived  all  the  year  round  in 
-what  were  then  called  lodgings,  that  is,  apartments 
appropriated  to  the  royal  household,  or  even  to  others, 
in  St.  James's,  or  at  Richmond,  or  at  Windsor.  In 
order  fully  to  comprehend  all  the  intimate  relations 
Avhich  he  had  with  the  court,  it  is  necessary  to  present 
the  reader  with  some  account  of  the  ftimily  of  George 
II.  Five  daughters  had  been  the  female  issue  of  his 
]\Iajesty"s  marriage  with  Queen  Caroline.  Three  of 
these  princesses,  the  three  elder  ones,  had  lived,  dur- 
ino-  the  life  of  George  I.,  at  St.  James's  with  their 
grandfather ;  who,  irritated  by  the  differences  between 
him  and  his  son,  then  Prince  of  Wales,  adopted  that 
measure  rather  as  showing  his  authority  than  IVom 
any  affection  to  the  young  princesses.  It  Avas,  in 
truth,  difficult  to  say  which  of  these  royal  ladies 
was  the  most  unfortunate. 

Anne,  the  eldest,  had  shown  her  spirit  early  in  life 
Avhilst  residing  with  George  I.  ;  she  had  a  proud,  im- 
perious nature,  and  her  temper  Avas,  it  must  be  owned, 
put  to  a  severe  test.  The  only  time  that  George  I. 
did  the  English  the  ]to)i(>r  of  choosing  one  of  the 
beauties  of  the  nation  for  his  mistress,  was  during 
the  last  year  of  his  reign.  The  object  of  his  clioice 
was  Anne  Brett,  the  eldest  daughter  of  the  infamous 
Countess  of  jNIacclesfield  by  her  second  husl)aiid. 
The  neglect  of  Savage,  the  poet,  her  son,  was  merely 


ANNE   intKTT.  287 

Olio  paPsa<i;o  in  tlio  iniquitous  life  of  Lady  ^Nlacc-k'S- 
ficld.  Kndow  cd  witli  siuLiiilav  taste  and  judffincnt, 
consiilii'd  hy  Culley  (Jibber  on  every  new  play  lie 
produced,  tlio  inotlior  of  Sava<^e  uas  not  only  Avliolly 
destitute  of  all  virtue,  but  of  all  shame.  One  day, 
looking  out  of  the  window,  she  perceived  a  very 
handsome  man  assaulted  by  some  bailiffs  who  Avero 
going  to  arrest  him  :  she  ])aid  his  debt,  released,  and 
married  liiiii.  The  hero  of  this  story  was  Colonel 
Brett,   the  father  of  Anne  Brett. 

The  child  of  such  a  mother  was  not  likely  to  be 
even  decently  respectable ;  and  Anne  was  proud  of 
her  disgraceful  pre-eminence  and  of  her  disgusting  and 
royal  lover.  She  was  dark,  and  her  flashing  dark  eyes 
reseml)hMl  those  of  a  Sj)aiiis]i  l)eauty.  Ten  years  after 
the  death  of  (leorgo  I.,  she  found  a  husband  in  Sir 
William  Leman,  of  Northall,  and  was  announced,  on 
that  occasion,  as  the  half-sister  of  Richard  Savage. 

To  the  society  of  this  woman,  when  at  St.  James's 
as  '"Mistress  Brett,"  the  three  princesses  were  sub- 
jected: at  the  same  time  the  Duchess  of  Kendal,  the 
king's  German  mistress,  occupied  other  lodgings  at 
St.  James's. 

Miss  Brett  was  to  he  rewarded  with  the  coronet  of  a 
countess  for  her  degradation,  the  king  hcing  absent  on 
the  occasion  at  Hanover ;  elated  by  her  expectations, 
she  took  the  liberty,  during  his  Majesty's  absence,  of 
ordering  a  door  to  be  broken  out  of  her  apartment 
into  the  roval  garden,   where  the    iirincesses  Avalkcd. 


288  A   BITTER  CUP. 

The  Princess  Anne,  not  deigning  to  associate  with  her, 
commanded  that  it  should  be  forthwith  closed.  Miss 
Brett  imperiously  reversed  that  order.  In  the  midst 
of  the  affair,  the  king  died  suddenly,  and  Anne  Brett's 
reign  was  over,  and  her  influence  soon  as  much  forgot- 
ten as  if  she  had  never  existed.  The  Princess  Anne 
was  pining  in  the  dulness  of  her  royal  home,  when  a 
marriage  with  the  Prince  of  Orange  was  proposed  for 
the  consideration  of  his  parents.  It  was  a  miserable 
match  as  well  as  a  miserable  prospect,  for  the  prince's 
revenue  amounted  to  no  more  than  £12,000  a  year ;  and 
the  state  and  pomp  to  which  the  Princess  Royal  had 
been  accustomed  could  not  be  contemplated  on  so  small 
a  fortune.  It  was  still  worse  in  point  of  that  poor 
consideration,  happiness.  The  Prince  of  Orange  Avas 
both  deformed  and  disgusting  in  his  person,  though 
his  face  was  sensible  in  expression  ;  and  if  he  inspired 
one  idea  more  strongly  than  another  when  he  appeared 
in  his  uniform  and  cocked  hat,  and  spoke  bad  French' 
or  Avorse  English,  it  Avas  that  of  seeing  before  one  a 
dressed-up  baboon. 

It  was  a  bitter  cup  for  the  princess  to  drink,  but  she 
drank  it :  she  reflected  that  it  might  be  tlie  only  way 
of  quitting  a  court  Avhere,  in  case  of  her  father's  death, 
she  would  be  dependent  on  her  brother  Frederick,  or  on 
that  Aveak  prince's  strong-minded  Avife.  So  she  con- 
sented and  took  the  dAvarf ;  and  that  consent  Avas  re- 
garded by  a  grateful  people,  and  by  all  good  courtiers, 
as  a  sacrifice  for  the  sake  of  Protestant  principles,  the 


THE   DAKIJNC    OF  TlIK   FAMILY.  289 

House  of  Orange  being,  p^r  excellence,  at  the  head  of 
the  orthodox  dynasties  in  Europe.  A  dowry  of  X80,0U0 
■was  fortlnvitli  granted  by  an  admiring  Commons — 
just  double  Avhat  liad  ever  been  given  before.  That 
sum  was  happily  lyini;  in  the  exchequer,  being  the 
purchase-money  of  some  lands  in  St.  Christopher's 
uhieh  had  lately  been  sold  ;  and  King  George  "was 
tliaiiki'iil  to  get  rid  of  a  daughter  whose  haughtiness 
gave  liiiii  trouble.  In  person,  too,  the  Princess  lloj'al 
was  not  very  ornamental  to  the  Court.  She  Avas  ill- 
made,  with  a  propensity  to  grow  fat;  her  comj)lexion, 
otherwise  yery  fine,  was  marked  with  the  small-pox  ; 
she  had,  however,  a  lively,  clean  look — one  of  her 
chief  beauties — and  a  certain  royalty  of  manner. 

The  Princess  Amelia  died,  as  the  world  thought, 
single,  but  consoled  herself  Avith  various  love  flirtations. 
The  Duke  of  Newcastle  made  love  to  her,  but  her  af- 
fections were  centred  on  the  Duke  of  Grafton,  to 
whom  she  was  privately  married,  as  is  confidently 
asserted. 

The  Princess  Caroline  was  the  darlinir  of  her  fimilv. 
Even  the  king  relied  on  her  truth.  When  there  was 
any  disjnite,  he  used  to  say,  "  Send  for  Caroline ;  she 
will  tell  us  the  right  story." 

Her  fate  had  its  clouds.  Amiable,  gentle,  of  un- 
bounded charity,  with  strong  affections,  which  Averc  not 
suffered  to  flow  in  a  legitimate  channel,  she  became 
devotedly  attached  to   Lord  Ilervey :    her  heart  was 

bound   u])   in   him;    his   death   drove  her  into  a  per- 
VoL.  I.— 19 


290  THE   YOUNGER  ROYAL   TRIXCESSES. 

manent  retreat  from  tlie  world.  No  debasing  connec- 
tion existed  between  tliem  ;  but  it  is  misery,  it  is  sin 
enou<Tli  to  love  another  woman's  husband — and  that 
sin,  that  misery,  was  the  lot  of  the  royal  and  otherwise 
virtuous  Caroline. 

The  Princess  Mary,  another  victim  to  conventional- 
ities, was  united  to  Frederick,  Landgrave  of  Hesse  Cas- 
sel ;  a  barbarian,  from  whom  she  escaped,  whenever 
she  could,  to  come,  with  a  bleeding  heart,  to  her  Eng- 
lish home.  She  was,  even  Horace  Walpole  allows, 
"  of  the  softest,  mildest  temper  in  the  world,"  and 
fondly  beloved  by  her  sister  Caroline,  and  by  the 
"  Butcher  of  Culloden,"'  William,  Duke  of  Cumber- 
land. 

Louisa  became  Queen  of  Denmark  in  174G,  after 
some  years'  marriage  to  the  Crown  Prince.  "  We  are 
lucky,"  Horace  Walpole  writes  on  that  occasion,  "in 
the  death  of  kings." 

The  two  princesses  who  were  still  under  the  paternal 
roof  were  contrasts.  Caroline  was  a  constant  invalid, 
gentle,  sincere,  unambitious,  devoted  to  her  mother, 
whose  death  nearly  killed  her.  Amelia  affected  popu- 
larity, and  assumed  the  esprit  fort — was  fond  of  med- 
dling in  politics,  and  after  the  death  of  her  mother, 
joined  the  Bedford  faction,  in  opposition  to  her  father, 
liut  both  these  princesses  were  outwai'dly  submissive 
when  Lord  Hervey  became  the  queen's  chamberlain. 

The  evenings  at  St.  James's  were  sj)ent  in  the  same 
way  as  those  at  Kensington. 


EVENINGS  AT  ST.  JAMES'S.  201 

Quadrille  formed  li<  r  ^^ajesty's  pastime,  uiid,  whilst 
L(»r(l  Ilervev  i)l;ived  pools  of  cvibba^ie  ■with  the  Princess 
Caroline  and  ilic  maids  of  honor,  the  Duke  of  Cumber- 
land amused  himself  ami  the  Princess  Amelia  at  ''  Itid- 
fet."  Oil  ^Mondays  and  Fridays  there  av ere  drawing- 
rooms  held ;  and  these  receptions  took  place,  very 
Aviselv,   in   tlie  cveninii. 

Beneatli  ;dl  the  show  of  gayety  and  the  freezing 
ceremony  of  those  stately  occasions,  there  was  in 
that  court  as  much  misery  as  family  dissensions,  or, 
to  speak  accurately,  fiimily  hatreds,  can  engender. 
Endless  jealousies,  which  seem  to  us  as  frivolous  as 
they  were  rabid,  and  contentions,  of  which  even  llie 
origin  is  still  unexplained,  had  long  severed  the  queen 
from  her  eldest  son.  George  II.  had  always  loved  his 
mother :  his  affection  for  the  uidiappy  Sophia  Dorothea 
was  one  of  the  very  few  traits  of  goodness  in  a  character 
utterlv  vulurar,  sensual,  and  entirely  selfish.  His  son, 
Frederick,  Prince  of  Wales,  on  the  other  hand,  hated 
his  mother.  He  loved  neither  of  his  parents:  but  llic 
queen  liad  the  ])re-cmiiu'nce  in  his  aversion. 

The  king,  during  the  year  173G,  was  at  Hanover. 
His  return  was  announced,  but  under  circumstances 
of  danger.  A  tremendous  storm  arose  just  as  he  was 
prepared  to  embark  at  Helvoetsluys.  All  London  was 
on  the  look-out,  weathercocks  w'ere  watched,  tides, 
winds,  and  moons  formed  the  only  subjects  of  con- 
versation ;  but  no  one  of  his  iNIajesty's  subjects  was 
so    demonstrative    as    the    Prince    of  Wales,   and    his 


292  FEEDEEICK,   PEINCE  OF  WALES. 

cheerfulness,  and  his  triumph  even,  on  the  occasion, 
were  of  course  resentfully  heard  of  by  the  queen. 

During  the  storm,  when  anxiety  had  almost  amounted 
to  fever,  Lord  Ilervey  dined  Avith  Sir  Robert  Walpole. 
Their  conversation  naturally  turned  on  the  state  of 
affairs,  prospectively.  Sir  Robert  called  the  prince 
a  "  poor,  weak,  irresolute,  false,  lying,  contemptible 
wretch."  Lord  Hervey  did  not  defend  him,  but  sug- 
gested that  Frederick,  in  case  of  his  father's  death, 
might  be  more  influenced  by  the  queen  than  he  had 
hitherto  been.  "Zounds,  my  lord!"  interrupted  Sir 
Robert,  "  he  would  tear  the  flesh  off  her  bones  with 
red-hot  irons  sooner !  The  distinctions  she  shows  to 
you,  too,  I  believe,  would  not  be  forgotten.  Then  the 
notion  he  has  of  his  great  riches,  and  the  desire  he  has 
of  fingering  them,  would  make  him  pinch  her,  and 
pinch  her  again,  in  order  to  make  her  buy  her  ease, 
till  she  had  not  a  ii;roat  left." 

What  a  picture  of  a  heartless  and  selfish  character  ! 
The  next  day  the  (jueen  sent  for  Lord  Ilervey  to  ask 
him  if  he  knew  the  particulars  of  a  great  dinner  which 
the  prince  had  given  to  the  lord  mayor  the  previous 
day,  whilst  the  whole  country,  and  the  court  in  par- 
ticular, was  trembling  for  the  safety  of  the  king,  liis 
father.  Lord  Ilervey  told  her  that  the  prince's  speech 
at  the  dinner  was  the  most  ingratiating  piece  of  popu- 
larity ever  lieard ;  tlie  healths,  of  course,  as  usual. 
"Heavens!"  cried  the  (jueen :  "  po})ularity  always 
makes    me    sick,    but    Fritzs    popularity    makes    mo 


AMELIA   SOPHIA    \VALMODEN.  293 

vomit !  I  hear  that  yesterday,  on  tlie  prince's  side 
of  the  House,  they  talked  of  tlic  king's  being  cast 
away  with  tlie  same  mtuj  froid  as  you  woiilfl  talk 
of  an  overturn,  and  that  my  good  son  strutted  about 
as  if  he  had  been  already  king.  Did  you  mark  the 
airs  Avith  which  he  came  into  my  drawing-room  in 
the  mornin";?  thou<!;h  he  does  not  think  fit  to  honor 
me  with  his  presence,  or  ennui  me  with  his  wife's,  of 
an  evening  ?  I  felt  something  here  in  my  throat  that 
swelled  and  half-choked  me." 

Poor  Queen  Caroline!  with  such  a  son,  and  such  a 
husband,  she  must  have  been  possessed  of  a  more  than 
usual  share  of  German  imperturbability  to  sustain  her 
cheerfulness,  writhing,  as  she  often  was,  under  the 
pangs  of  a  long-concealed  disorder,  of  Avhich  eventually 
she  died.  Even  on  the  occasion  of  the  king's  return 
in  time  to  spend  his  birthday  in  England,  the  queen's 
temper  had  been  sorely  tried.  Nothing  had  ever  vexed 
her  more  than  the  king's  admiration  for  Amelia  Sophia 
AValmoden,  who,  after  the  death  of  Caroline,  was  cre- 
ated Countess  of  Yarmouth.  INIadame  Walmoden  liad 
been  a  reiy-ninjr  belle  among  the  married  women  at 
Hanover  when  George  II.  visited  that  country  in 
1735.  Not  that  her  Majesty's  affections  were  wounded ; 
it  was  her  ))ride  that  was  hurt  l)y  the  idea  that  people 
Avould  think  that  this  Hanoverian  lady  had  more  influ- 
ence than  she  had.  In  other  respects  tlic  king's  ab- 
sence Avas  a  relief :  slic  hail  the  o'A/^  of  the  regency; 
she  had   llie  comfort  of  having  the  hours  Avhich  her 


294  KINGLY  INSULTS. 

royal  torment  decreed  were  to  be  passed  in  amusin<^ 
his  dulness,  to  herself;  she  was  free  from  his  "(quotid- 
ian sallies  of  temper,  which,"  as  Lord  Hervey  relates, 
"let  it  be  charged  by  what  hand  it  would,  used  always 
to  discharge  its  hottest  fire,  on  some  pretence  or  other, 
upon  her," 

It  is  quite  true  that  from  the  first  dawn  of  his  prefer- 
ence for  Madame  Walmoden,  the  king  wrote  circum- 
stantial letters  of  fifty  or  sixty  pages  to  the  queen, 
informing  her  of  every  stage  of  the  affair ;  the  queen, 
in  rej)ly,  saying  that  she  was  only  one  woman,  and  an 
old  woman,  and  adding,  "  that  he  might  love  more  and 
younger  tvomen.'^  In  return,  the  king  wrote,  "You 
must  love  the  Walmoden,  for  she  loves  you;''  a  civil 
insult,  which  he  accompanied  with  so  minute  a  descrip- 
tion of  liis  new  favorite,  that  the  (jueen,  had  she  been 
a  painter,  might  have  drawn  her  portrait  at  a  hundred 
miles'  distance. 

The  queen,  subservient  as  she  seemed,  felt  the 
humiliation.  Such  was  the  debased  nature  of  George 
II.  that  he  not  only  wrote  letters  unworthy  of  a  man 
to  write,  and  unfit  for  a  woman  to  read,  to  his  wife, 
but  he  desired  her  to  sliow  tliem  to  Sir  Robert  Walpole. 
lie  used  to  "tag  several  paragraphs,"  as  Lord  Her- 
vey expresses  it,  with  these  words,  ^' 3Iontrez  ceci,  et 
consultez  la-dessus  de  gros  homwe,''  meaning  Sir  Rob- 
ert. But  this  was  onlv  a  ))()rti(m  of  the  diso;ustin<);  dis- 
closures  made  by  tbe  vulgar,  licentious  monarch  to  his 
too  degrade(l  consort. 


POOR  QUEEN  CAROLINE!  295 

In  the  bitterness  of  her  mortification  the  queen  con- 
sulted Lord  llervey  and  Sir  Robert  as  to  the  possibility 
oC  her  losing  her  influence,  should  she  resent  the  king's 
delay  in  returniiiL^.  They  agreed  that  her  taking  the 
'"'' jiire  turn  "'  would  ruin  her  witli  her  royal  consort; 
Sir  Robert  adding,  that  it"  he  had  a  mind  to  flatter  her 
into  her  ruin,  he  might  talk  to  her  as  if  she  were 
twenty-five,  and  try  to  make  her  imagine  that  she 
could  bring  the  king  back  by  the  apprehension  of 
losing  her  affection.  lie  said  it  was  now  too  late  in 
her  life  to  try  new  methods ;  she  must  persist  in  the 
soothing,  coaxing,  submissive  arts  which  had  been 
practised  with  success,  and  even  press  his  Majesty  to 
bring  this  woman  to  England  !  "  lie  taught  her," 
says  Lord  llervey,  "this  hard  lesson  till  she  wept." 
Nevertheless,  the  queen  expressed  her  gratitude  to  the 
minister  for  his  advice.  "  My  lord,"  said  Walpole  to 
llervey,  "•  she  laid  her  thanks  on  me  so  thick  that  I 
found  I  had  gone  too  far,  for  I  am  never  so  much  afraid 
of  her  rebukes  as  of  her  commendations." 

Such  was  the  state  of  affjiirs  between  this  singular 
couple.  Nevertheless,  the  queen,  not  from  attachment 
to  the  king,  but  from  the  horror  she  had  of  her  son's 
reigning,  felt  such  fears  of  the  prince's  succeeding  to 
the  throne  as  she  could  liardly  ^express.  He  would, 
slio  Avas  convinced,  do  all  he  could  to  ruin  and  injure 
her  in  case  of  his  accession  to  the  throne. 

Tlie  consolation  of  such  a  fi'iend  as  L(n-d  llervey  can 
easily  be  conceived,  when  he  told  her  Majesty  that  he 


296  MISS  VANE. 

had  resolved,  in  case  the  king  had  been  lost  at  sea,  to 
have  retired  from  her  service,  in  order  to  prevent  any 
jealousy  or  irritation  that  might  arise  from  his  sup- 
posed influence  with  her  Majesty.  The  queen  stopped 
him  short,  and  said,  "  No,  my  lord,  I  should  never 
have  suffered  that ;  you  are  one  of  the  greatest  pleas- 
ures of  my  life.  But  did  I  love  you  less  than  I  do,  or 
less  like  to  have  you  about  me,  I  should  look  upon  the 
suffering  you  to  be  taken  from  me  as  such  a  meanness 
and  baseness  that  you  should  not  have  stirred  an  inch 
from  me.  You,"  she  added,  "should  have  gone  with 
me  to  Somerset  House  "  (which  was  hers  in  case  of  the 
king's  death).  She  then  told  him  she  should  have 
ben-jred  Sir  Robert  Waliiolc  on  her  knees  not  to  have 
sent  in  his  resignation. 

The  animosity  of  the  Prince  of  Wales  to  Lord  Her- 
vey  augmented,  there  can  be  no  doubt,  his  unnatural 
aversion  to  the  queen,  an  aversion  which  he  evinced 
early  in  life.  There  was  a  beautiful,  giddy  maid  of 
honor,  who  attracted  not  only  the  attention  of  Fred- 
erick, but  the  rival  attentions  of  other  suitors,  and 
among  them,  the  most  favored  was  said  to  be  Lord 
Ilervcy,  notwithstanding  that  he  had  then  been  for 
some  years  the  husband  of  one  of  the  loveliest  orna- 
ments of  the  court,  the  sensible  and  virtuous  Mary 
Lepel.  Miss  Vane  became  eventually  the  avowed 
fivorite  of  tlie  prince,  and  after  giving  birth  to  a  son, 
who  was  christene<l  Fitz-Frederick  Vane,  and  ^vlio 
died  in   IToG,  his  unhappy  motlier  died  ;i  few  months 


NOCTURNAL   DIVERSIONS.  297 

nftcrwards.  It  is  melancholy  tu  read  a  letter  fVdiu 
hmly  Ilervey  to  Mrs.  IToward,  portraying  tlio  f'r(tlic 
and  levity  of  tliis  once  joyous  creature  among  the 
other  maids  of  honor ;  and  her  strictures  show  at  once 
the  unrefined  nature  of  the  pranks  in  which  they  in- 
dulged,  and  her  own  sohriety  of  demeanor. 

►She  speaks,  on  one  occasion,  in  which,  however, 
Miss  Vane  did  not  sliarc  tlie  nocturnal  diversion,  of 
some  of  the  maids  of  honor  being  out  in  tlic  Avintcr 
all  night  in  the  gardens  at  Kensington — opening  and 
rattling  the  windows,  and  trying  to  frighten  people  out 
of  their  wits;  and  she  gives  Mrs.  Howard  a  hint  that 
the  queen  ought  to  be  informed  of  the  Avay  in  which 
her  young  attendants  amused  themselves.  After  levi- 
ties such  as  these,  it  is  not  surprising  to  find  poor 
Miss  Vane  writing  to  Mrs.  Howard,  with  complaints 
that  she  Avas  unjustly  aspersed,  tmd  referring  to  her 
relatives,  Lady  Betty  Nightingale  and  Lady  Hewet, 
in  testimony  of  the  falsehood  of  reports  Avhich,  un- 
happily,  the  event  verified. 

The  prince,  however,  never  forgave  Lord  Hervcy 
for  being  his  rival  witli  INIiss  Vane,  nor  his  mother  for 
lier  favoi's  to  Lord  Ilervey.  In  vain  did  the  (jueen 
endeavor  to  reconcile  Fritz,  as  she  called  him,  to  his 
father ; — nothing  could  be  done  in  a  case  where  the 
one  was  all  dogged  selfishness,  and  where  the  other, 
tlie  idol  oi"  the  opposition  party,  as  the  ]irince  ]iad 
ever  been,  so  hyere  de  tStc  as  to  swallow  all  the  adula- 
tion oficred  to  him,  and  to  lielieve  himself  a  demigud. 


298      "  NEIGHBOR  GEORGE'S  ORANGE-CHEST." 

"The  queen's  dread  of  a  rival,"  Horace  Walpole  re- 
marks, "  was  a  feminine  weakness :  the  behavior  of 
her  eldest  son  was  a  real  thorn."  Some  time  before 
his  marriage  to  a  princess  who  was  supposed  to  aug- 
ment his  hatred  of  his  mother,  Frederick  of  Wales 
had  contemplated  an  act  of  disobedience.  Soon  after 
his  arrival  in  England,  Sarah,  Duchess  of  Marl- 
borough, hearing  that  he  was  in  want  of  money,  had 
sent  to  offer  him  her  granddaughter.  Lady  Diana 
Spencer,  with  a  fortune  of  £100,000.  The  prince  ac- 
cepted the  young  lady,  and  a  day  was  fixed  for  his  mar- 
riage in  the  duchess's  lodge  at  the  Great  Park,  Wind- 
sor. But  Sir  Robert  Walpole,  getting  intelligence  of 
the  plot,  the  nuptials  Avere  stopped.  The  duchess 
never  forgave  either  Walpole  or  the  royal  family,  and 
took  an  early  opportunity  of  insulting  the  latter. 
W'hen  the  Prince  of  Orange  came  over  to  marry  the 
Princess  Royal,  a  sort  of  boarded  gallery  was  erected 
from  the  Avindows  of  the  great  drawing-room  of  the 
palace,  and  was  constructed  so  as  to  cross  the  garden 
to  the  Lutheran  chapel  in  the  Friary,  where  the 
duchess  lived.  The  Prince  of  Orange  being  ill,  went 
to  Bath,  and  the  marriage  was  delayed  for  some  weeks. 
Meantime  the  windows  of  IVIarlborough  House  were 
darkened  by  the  gallery.  "  I  wonder,"  cried  the  old 
duchess,  "  when  my  neighbor  George  will  take  away 
his  orange-chest?" — the  structure,  with  its  pent-house 
roof,  reallv  rcscmblino;  an  orange-chest. 

Mary  Lepel,  Lady  Hervey,  whose  attractions,  great 


MARY    LKrKI.,   LADY   irERVP:Y.  299 

as  they  were,  jdovcil  insiifTiciciit  to  rivot  tlio  fxclusivc 
admiiMtiuii  ul'  tlic  ;iccoiii|»lislic(l  I Icivcv,  liml  hecoiiie 
liis  wife  ill  ITliO,  some  liiiic  hclore  lici"  luishaiid  liiul 
been  coiiij)letc'ly  eiitlirallcd  with  tlie  gikled  prison 
doors  of  a  eoiii-t.  She  was  endowed  with  that  intel- 
lectual beauty  calculated  to  attract  a  ninn  dt'  talent  : 
she  was  hi;rhly  educated,  of"  great  talent;  possessed 
of"  sacoir  faire^  infinite  good  temper,  and  a  strict  sense 
of"  duty.  Slie  also  derived  from  lier  father.  Brigadier 
Lepel,  Avho  was  of  an  ancient  family  in  Sark,  a  con- 
siderable fortune.  Good  and  correct  as  she  was,  Lady 
Hervey  viewed  with  a  fashionable  composure  the 
various  intimacies  formed  during  the  course  of  their 
married  life  ])y  his  lordsliip. 

The  fact  is,  tliat  the  aim  of  Ijoth  was  not  so  much 
to  insure  tlieir  domestic  felicity  as  to  gratify  tlicir 
ambition.  Probably  they  were  disappointed  in  both 
these  aims — certaiidy  in  one  of  them  ;  talented,  in- 
defatigable, popular,  liveh',  and  courteous.  Lord  Her- 
ve}',  in  the  House  of  Commons,  advocated  in  vain,  in 
brilliant  orations,  tlie  measures  of  Walpole.  Twelve 
years,  fourteen  years  elapsed,  and  he  was  left  in  the 
somewhat  subordinate  position  of  vice-chamberlain,  in 
spite  of  that  high  order  of  talents  which  he  po.ssessed, 
and  wdiich  Avould  have  been  displayed  to  advantage  in 
a  graver  scene.  The  fact  has  been  explained:  the 
queen  coiild  not  do  without  him ;  she  confided  in 
him  ;  hci'  <laiighter  loved  him  ;  an<l  his  influence  in 
that  court  was  too  poAverful  f"or  Walpole  to  dispense 


300  EIVALEY. 

Avitli  an  aid  so  valuable  to  his  own  plans.  Some 
episodes  in  a  life  thus  frittered  away  until,  too  late, 
promotion  came,  alleviated  his  existence,  and  gave  his 
wife  only  a  passing  uneasiness,  if  even  indeed  they 
imparted  a  pang. 

One  of  these  was  his  dangerous  passion  for  Miss 
Vane ;  another,  his  platonic  attachment  to  Lady  Mary 
VVortley  Blontagu. 

Whilst  he  lived  on  the  terms  with  his  wife  which  is 
described  even  by  the  French  as  being  a  ''  3Ienage  de 
Paris,'"  Lord  Ilervey  found  in  another  quarter  the 
sympathies  which,  as  a  husband,  he  Avas  too  well-bred 
to  require.  It  is  pro]»able  that  he  always  admired  his 
Avife  more  than  any  other  person,  for  she  had  qualities 
that  were  ({uite  congenial  to  the  tastes  of  a  wit  and  a 
beau  in  those  times.  Lady  Ilervey  was  not  only  singu- 
larly captivating,  young,  gay,  and  handsome;  but  a 
complete  model  also  of  the  polished,  courteous,  high- 
bred Avoman  of  fashion.  Iler  manners  are  said  by 
Lady  Louisa  Stuart  to  have  ''had  a  foreign  tin^e, 
wdiich  some  called  affected  ;  Init  they  were  gentle,  easy, 
and  altogether  exquisitely  pleasing."  She  was  in 
secret  a  Jacobite — and  resembled  in  that  respect  most 
of  the  fine  ladies  in  Great  Britain.  Whio-acry  and 
Walpolism  were  vulgar:  it  was  haiit  tou  to  take  of- 
fence when  James  IT.  was  anatliematized,  and  (piite 
good  taste  to  hint  that  some  people  Avished  Avell  to  the 
Chevalier's  attenqtts  :  and  this  Avay  of  s])eaking  owed 
its  fashion  probably  to  Frederick  of  Wales,  wliosc  in- 


LADY    MAKY    WORTLEY   MONTAGT.  .iOl 

terest  in  Flora  MacdonaM,  and  -wliosc  concern  for 
the  exiled  family,  ^vere  anion<^  the  fe^v  amiahle  traits 
of  his  disposition.  Perhaps  they  arose  from  a  wish  to 
plague  his  parents,  rather  than  from  a  greatness  of 
character  foreign  to  this  prince. 

Lady  Ilervey  was  in  the  bloom  of  youth.  Lady 
Mary  in  the  zenith  of  her  age,  when  they  became 
rivals:  Lady  Mary  had  once  excited  the  jealousy  of 
Queen  Caroline  when    Princi'ss  of  Wales. 

"How  becomingly  Lady  Mary  is  dressed  to-night  I" 
whispered  George  IL  to  his  wife,  whom  he  had  called 
up  from  the  card-table  to  impart  to  her  that  important 
conviction.  "Lady  Mary  always  dresses  well,"  was 
the  cold  and  curt  reply. 

Lord  Hervey  had  been  married  about  seven  years 
when  Lady  Mary  Wortley  INIontagu  reappeared  at  the 
court  of  Queen  Caroline,  after  her  long  residence  in  Tur- 
key. Lord  Ilervey  was  thirty-three  years  of  age ;  Lady 
INLiry  was  verging  on  forty.  She  Avas  still  a  pretty  wom- 
an, with  a  pi(|uant,  neat-featured  face;  which  does  not 
seem  to  Imvc  done  any  justice  to  a  mind  at  once  mascu- 
line and  sensitive,  nor  to  a  heart  capable  of  benevolence 
— capable  of  strong  attachments,  and  of  bitter  hatred. 

Like  Lady  Ilervev,  she  lived  with  her  husband  on 
well-bred  terms :  there  existed  no  quarrel  between 
them,  no  avowed  ground  of  coldness;  it  was  the  icy 
boundary  of  frozen  feeling  that  severed  them  ;  the 
sure  and  lasting  though  polite  destroyer  of  all  bonds, 
indift'erence.     Lady    ^Liry    was    full    of    rej)artee,    of 


302      HERVEY'S   INTIMACY   WITH   LADY   MARY. 

poetry,  of  anecdote,    and  was  not   averse   to  admira^ 
tion ;    but    she  was    essentially  a  woman   of  common 
sense,  of  views  enlarged  by  travel,  and  of  ostensibly 
good  principles.     A  woman  of  delicacy  Avas  not  to  be 
foun<l  in  those  days,  any  more  than  other  productions 
of    the    nineteenth    century :     a    telegraphic    message 
would    have    been    almost    as    startling    to    a    courtly 
ear  as  the  refusal  of  a  fine   lady  to    suffer  a  double 
entendre.     Lady  Mary  was    above    all    scruples,   and 
Lord  Hervey,   who  had  lived    too    lono;  with   Gcoro-e 
II.   and    his  queen  to  have  the  moral    sense    in    her 
perfection,  liked  her  all  the  better  for  her  courage — 
her  merry,   indelicate  jokes,   and  her  putting  things 
down    by   their    right    names,   on   which    Lady    Mary 
plumed  herself:  she  was  what  they  term  in  the  north 
of  England,    "Emancipated."     They  formed   an    old 
acquaintance  Avith  a  confidential,  if  not  a  tender  friend- 
ship ;   and  that  their  intimacy  was  unpleasant  to  Lady 
Hervey  was  proved  by  her  refusal — when,   after   the 
grave  had  closed  over  Lord  Hervey,  late  in  life,  Lady 
Mary,  ill  and  broken  down  l)y  age,  returned  to  die  in 
England — to  resume  an  acquaintance  wliich  had  been 
a  painful  one  to  her. 

Lord  Hervey  was  a  martyr  to  illness  of  an  epileptic 
character;  and  Lady  Mary  gave  him  lier  sympathy. 
She  was  somewhat  of  a  doctor — and  being  older  than 
her  friend,  may  have  had  the  art  of  soothing  sufferings, 
which  were  the  Avorse  because  thev  Avere  concealed. 
Whilst   he    writhed    in    pain,   he   Avas   obliued   to   n'we 


VISITS  TO  TWICKENIfAM.  303 

vent  to  his  a;;ony  liy  ullcging  that  an  attack  of  cramp 
bent  liini  douhle  :  yet  lie  liveil  hy  nilc — a  rule  lianhf  to 
adhere  to  than  that  (if  tlie  most  conscientious  honuxjo- 
patli  in  tlic  present  day.  In  the  midst  of  court  gayeties 
ami  thi'  (hities  of  office,  he  tlius  Avrote  to  Dr.  Chevne  : — 

...'•'  To  h't  you  know  that  I  continue  one  of  your 
most  pious  votaries,  and  .to  tell  you  the  method  I  am 
in.  Tn  the  first  place,  I  never  take  wine  or  malt  drink, 
nor  any  lif(uid  but  water  ami  milk-tea;  in  the  next,  I 
eat  no  meat  but  the  whitest,  youngest,  and  tenderest, 
nine  times  in  ten  nothing  but  chicken,  and  never  more 
than  the  quantity  of  a  small  one  at  a  meal.  I  seldom 
eat  any  supper,  but  if  any,  nothing  absolutely  but 
bread  and  water ;  two  days  in  the  week  I  eat  no  flesh ; 
my  breakfast  is  dry  biscuit,  not  sweet,  and  green  tea ; 
T  liave  left  off  butter  as  bilious ;  I  eat  no  salt,  nor  any 
sauce  but  bread-sauce." 

Among  the  most  cherished  relaxations  of  the  royal 
household  were  visits  to  Twickenham,  whilst  the  court 
was  at  Richmond.  The  River  Thames,>  which  has 
borne  on  its  waves  so  much  misery  in  olden  times — 
Avhich  was  the  highway  from  the  Star-chamber  to  the 
Tower — wliic-h  has  been  belabored  in  our  days  with  so 
imicli  wealth,  and  sullied  with  so  much  iiiijiuritv  :  that 
I'ivcr,  whose  cnn-cnt  is  one  hour  rich  as  tlie  stream  of 
a  gold  river,  the  next  hour,  foul  as  the  pestilent  church- 
yard,— was  then,  especially  between  Richmond  and 
Teddington,  a  glassy,  placid  stream,  reflecting  on  its 
margin   the    chestnut-trees   of  stately    Ham,   and    the 


304  BACON'S   OPINION  OF  TWICKENHAM. 

reeds  and  wild  flowers  wliicli  grew  undisturbed  in  the 
fertile  meadows  of  Petersham. 

Lord  Hervey,  with  the  ladies  of  the  court,  Mrs. 
Howard  as  their  chaperon,  delighted  in  being  wafted 
to  that  village,  so  rich  in  names  which  give  to  Twicken- 
ham undying  associations  with  the  departed  great. 
Sometimes  the  effeminate  valetudinarian,  Hervey,  was 
content  to  attend  the  Princess  Caroline  to  Marble  Hill 
only,  a  villa  resideuce  built  by  George  II.  for  Mrs. 
Howard,  and  often  referred  to  in  the  correspondence 
of  that  period.  Sometimes  the  royal  barge,  with  its 
rowers  in  scarlet  jackets,  was  seen  conveying  the  gay 
party  ;  ladies  in  slouched  hats,  pointed  over  fair  brows 
in  front,  with  a  fold  of  sarsenet  round  them,  termin- 
ated in  a  long  bow  and  ends  behind — with  deep  falling 
mantles  over  dresses  never  coirnizant  of  crinoline:  o-en- 
tleman,  with  cocked -hats,  their  bag-wigs  and  ties  ap- 
pearing behind ;  and  beneath  their  puce-colored  coats, 
delicate  silk  tights  and  gossamer  stockings  were  visible, 
as  they  trod  the  mossy  lawn  of  the  Palace  Gardens  at 
Richmond,  or,  followed  by  a  tiny  greyhound,  prepared 
for  the  lazy  pleasures  of  the  day. 

Sometimes  the  visit  was  private;  the  sickly  Princess 
Caroline  had  a  fancy  to  make  one  of  the  group  who  arc 
bound  to  Pope's  villa.  TAvickenham,  where  that  great 
little  man  had,  since  171 T),  established  himself,  was 
pronounced  by  Lord  Bacon  to  be  the  finest  place  in 
tlic  world  for  study.  "Let  Twitnam  Park,"  he  wrote 
to  his  stcAvard,  Thomas  Bushel),  "  whicli   I  sold  in  my 


A   VISIT  TO  POPE'S   VILLA.  305 

youns^cr  days,  Ix'  puvcli.iscd,  if  possihlc,  f(ir  a  rosidcnoo 
fur  siicli  (Icscrx  iiiu'  |K'rsoiis  to  study  in  (siiit-e  1  expori- 
iiientallv  loiind  the  situation  oi"  tliat  place  iniicli  con- 
vcnit'iit  lor  the  tiial  of"  my  pliilosopliical  conclusions) 
— expressed  in  a  ]»aper  sealed,  to  the  trust — wh'cli  I 
myself  li;id  ])iit  in  practice  and  settled  tlie  same  by  act 
of  Parliament,  if  the  vicissitudes  of  fortune  had  not 
intervened  and  in-evented  me." 

Twickenham  continued,  long  after  Bacon  liad  penned 
this  injunction,  to  be  the  retreat  of  the  poet,  the  states- 
man, tlie  scholar ;  the  haven  where  the  retired  actress 
and  lo-oken  novelist  found  peace;  the  abode  of  Henry 
Fielding,  who  lived  in  one  of  the  back  streets;,  the 
temporary  refuge,  from  tlie  world  of  London,  of  Lady 
Mary  Wortley  Montagu,  and  the  life-long  home  of 
Pope. 

Let  us  picture  to  ourselves  a  visit  from  the  princess 
to  Pope's  villa : — As  the  barge,  following  the  gentle 
bendings  of  the  river,  ncars  Twickenham,  a  richer 
green,  a  summer  brightness,  indicates  it  is  approach- 
ing that  spot  of  whicli  even  Bishop  Warburton  says 
that  "  the  beauty  of  the  owner's  poetic  genius  appeared 
to  as  much  advantage  in  the  disposition  of  these  roman- 
tic materials  as  in  any  of  his  best-contrived  poems." 
And  the  loved  toil  which  formed  the  quincunx,  which 
j)erforated  and  extended  the  grotto  until  it  extended 
across  the  road  to  a  garden  on  the  opposite  side — the 
toil  which  slidwcd  tlie  gentler  parts  of  Pope's  better 
nature — has  been  respected,  and  its  effects  preserveil. 

Vol.  I.— 20 


306  POPE  AS  A  HOST. 

The  enamelled  lawn,  green  as  no  other  grass  save  that 
by  the  Thames  side  is  green,  was  swept  until  late  years 
by  the  light  boughs-  of  the  famed  willow.  Every  me- 
morial of  the  bard  Avas-  treasured  by  the  gracious  hands 
into  which,  after  1744,  the  classic  spot  fell — those  of 
Sir  William  Stanhope. 

In  the  subterranean-  passage  this  verse  appears ; 
adulatory  it  must  be  confessed : — 

"  The  humble  roof,  the  garden's  scanty  line, 
III  suit  the  genius  of  the  bard  divine; 
But  fancy  now  assumes  a  fairer  scope, 
And  Stanhope's  plans  unfold  the  soul  of  Pope." 

It  should  have  been  Stanhope's  "gold," — a  metal 
which  Avas  not  so  abundant,  nor  indeed  so  much 
wanted  in  Pope's  time  as  in  our  own.  Let  us  picture 
to  ourselves  the  poet  as  a  host. 

As  the  barge  is  moored  close  to  the  low  steps  which 
lead  up  from  the  river  to  the  villa,  a  diminutive  figure, 
then  in  its  prime  (if  prime  it  ever  had),  is  seen  moving 
impatiently  forward.  By  that  young-old  face,  with  its 
large  lucid  speaking  eyes  that  liglit  it  up,  as  does  a  rush- 
light in  a  cavern — by  that  twisted  figure  with  its  emaci- 
ated legs — by  the  large,  sensible  mouth,  the  pointed, 
marked,  well-defined  nose — by  the  wig,  or  hair  pushed 
off  in  masses  from  the  broad  forehead  and  falling  bc- 
liind  in  tresses — by  the  dress,  that  loose,  single-breasted 
black  coat — by  the  cambric  baiid  and  plaited  shirt, 
without  a  fiill,  bat  fine  and  white,  for  the  poor  poet 


THE  LITTLE  NIGIITIXCiALE.  307 

lias  taken  infinite  pains  tliat  day  in  self-adornraent — 
by  tlic  delieate  rufHe  on  tliat  lariiv  thin  liaiid,  and  still 
more  Ity  the  elear,  most  musical  voice  wliich  is  heanl 
"vvelcuminix  his  i-oval  and  iiohlo  quests,  as  he  stands 
bowin^r  low  to  the  Princess  Caroline,  and  hendin";  to 
kiss  hands — liv  that  voice  Avhicli  gained  him  more  espe- 
ciallv  the  name  of  the  little  nij;litino;ale — is  Pone  at 
once  recognized,  and  Pope  in  the  perfection  of  his  days, 
in  the  very  zenith  of  his  fame. 

One  ^vould  gladly  have  been  a  sprite  to  listen  from 
some  twig  of  that  then  stripling  Avilhnv  uhidi  the  poet 
had  planted  Avith  his  own  hand,  to  talk  of  those  who 
chatted  for  a  while  under  its  shade,  before  they  went 
in-doors  to  an  elegant  dinner  at  the  usual  hour  of 
t\vcl\('.  How  deiightfid  to  hear,  unseen,  tlie  repartees 
of  Lady  ]Mary  Wortley  Montagu,  who  comes  down,  it 
is  natural  to  conclude,  from  her  villa  near  to  that  of 
Pope.  How  fine  a  study  might  one  not  draw  of  the 
fine  gentleman  and  the  Avit  in  Lord  Ilervey,  as  he  is 
commanded  by  the  gentle  Princess  Caroline  to  sit  on 
her  right  hand  ;  l)iit  his  heart  is  across  the  table,  with 
Lady  ]\Lvry  I  IIow  amusing  to  observe  the  dainty  but 
not  sumptuous  repast  contrived  with  Pope's  exquisite 
taste,  but  regulated  by  his  habitual  economy — for  his 
late  fiither,  a  worthy  Jacobite  hatter,  erst  in  the  Strand, 
disdained  to  invest  the  fortune  he  had  amassed,  from 
the  extensive  sale  of  cocked-hats,  in  the  Funds,  over 
which  an  Hanoverian  stranger  ruled  ;  but  had  lived  on 
his   capital   of  £20,000   (as   spendthrifts   do,    without 


o08  THE  ESSENCE  OF  SMALLTALK. 

eitlier  moral,  religious,  or  political  reasons)  as  long  as 
it  lasted  him  ;  yet  lie  was  no  spendtlirii't.  Let  us  look, 
therefore,  ^vith  a  lil)eral  eve,  noting,  as  we  stand,  how 
that  fortune,  in  league  with  nature,  who  made  the  poet 
crooked,  had  maimed  two  of  his  fingers,  such  time  as, 
passing  a  hridge,  tlie  poor  little  poet  was  overturned 
into  the  river,  and  lie  would  have  been  drowned,  had 
not  the  postilion  broken  the  coach  window  and  dragged 
the  tiny  body  through  the  aperture.  We  mark,  how- 
ever, that  he  generally  contrives  to  hide  this  defect,  as 
he  would  fain  have  hidden  every  other,  from  the  lynx 
eyes  of  Lady  Mary,  who  knows  him,  however,  thorough- 
ly, and  reads  every  line  of  that  poor  little  heart  of  his, 
enamored  of  her  as  it  was. 

Tlien  the  conversation !  How  gladly  would  wc 
cntch  here  some  drops  of  what  must  liave  1)een  the 
very  essence  of  small-talk,  and  small-talk  is  the  only 
thing  fit  for  early  dinners  !  Our  host  is  noted  for  his 
easy  address,  his  engaging  manners,  his  delicacy, 
politeness,  and  a  certain  tact  he  had  of  showing  every 
guest  that  he  was  Avelcomc  in  the  choicest  expressions 
and  most  elegant  terms.  Tlien  Lady  Mary !  how 
brilliant  is  her  slightest  turn  !  how  slie  banters  Pope 
— hoAv  slie  gives  double  entendre  for  douhle  entendre 
to  Ilervey  !  How  sensible,  yet  how  gay  is  all  slie 
says ;  how  bright,  liow  cutting,  yet  how  polished  is  the 
equivoque  of  the  witty,  high-bred  Ilervey!  He  is 
happy  tliat  d:iy — away  IVom  the  coarse,  jiassionate 
kin"',  wliom  he  hated  with  a  hatred  tliat  l)urns  itself 


IIEKVKY-S  ArFKCTATION.  oOO 

out  in  liis  lonMiip's  "Mcinoirs;"  away  from  the  somc- 
-wliat  exactini^  and  iiitialile  ({ueen ;  a^ay  IVom  tlic 
hated   IVdliaiii,   and    I  In-   ri\.il    (Jniftdii. 

And  conversation  never  ila;:^s  uhen  all,  more  or  less, 
are  congenial ;  Avlien  all  aie  Avell-informed,  Avell-bred 
and  resolved  to  please.  Yet  there  is  a  canker  in  that 
■whole  assembly  ;  that  canker  is  a  ^vant  of  confidence  ; 
no  one  trusts  the  other ;  Ladv  Mary's  encouragement 
of  Ilervey  surprises  and  shocks  the  Princess  Caroline, 
•who  loves  him  secretly;  Ilervey 's  attentions  to  the 
queen  of  letters  scandalizes  Pope,  who  soon  afterwards 
makes  a  declaration  to  Lady  ]Mary.  Pope  Avrithes 
undti-  a  lash  just  held  over  him  by  Lady  Mary's  hand. 
Ilervey  feels  that  the  poet,  though  all  suavity,  is  ready 
to  demolish  him  at  any  moment,  if  lie  can  ;  and  the 
only  really  happy  and  com})lacent  person  of  the  whole 
party  is,  perhaps,  Pojjc's  old  mother,  A\ho  sits  in  the 
room  next  to  that  occupied  for  dinne)-,  industriously 
spinning. 

This  happy  state  of  things  came,  however,  as  is 
often  the  case  in  close  intimacies,  to  a  painful  conclu- 
sion. There  was  too  little  reality,  too  little  earnestness 
of  feeling,  for  the  friendship  between  Pope  and  Lady 
Mary,  including  Lord  Ilervey,  to  last  long.  His  lord- 
ship had  his  afl'ectations,  and  his  efleminate  nicety  was 
pi'cncrbinl.  One  day  being  asked  at  dinner  if  ho 
would  take  some  1)0(1".  he  is  i'e|iorted  to  have  ans\vt'i'e(l, 
"  lu'ct".''  (ill  no  I  laii'jii  !  (Jon  I  you  know  I  iicxcr  c-it 
lu'cf  ni»r  //<'/. s'.  noi-  eurrv,  nor  anv  of  those  thint^s?" 


310  rOPE'S  QUARRELS. 

Poor  man  !  it  was  probably  a  pleasant  -way  of  turning 
off  what  he  may  have  deemed  an  assault  on  a  digestion 
that  could  hai'dly  conquer  any  solid  food.  This  affec- 
tation offended  Lady  Mary,  Avhose  mot,  that  there 
were  three  species,  "Men,  women,  and  Herveys  " — 
implies  a  perfect  perception  of  the  eccentricities  even 
of  Iier  gifted  friend,  Lord  Ilervey,  Avhose  mother's 
friend  slie  had  been,  and  the  object  of  whose  admira- 
tion she  undoubtedly  was. 

Pope,  who  was  the  most  irritable  of  men,  never  for- 
got or  forgave  even  the  most  trifling  offence.  Lady 
Bolingbroke  truly  said  of  him  that  he  played  the 
politician  about  cabbages  and  salads,  and  everybody 
agrees  that  he  could  hardly  tolerate  the  wit  that  Avas 
more  successful  than  his  own.  It  was  about  the  year 
1725  that  he  began  to  hate  Lord  Ilervey  with  such  a 
hatred  as  only  he  could  feel ;  it  was  unmitigated  by  a 
single  touch  of  generosity  or  of  compassion.  Pope 
afterwards  owned  that  his  acquaintance  with  Lady 
Mary  and  Avith  Ilervey  Avas  discontinued,  merely  be- 
cause tliey  had  too  much  Avit  for  him.  Towards  the 
latter  end  of  1732,  "The  Imitation  of  the  Second 
Satire  of  tlie  First  Book  of  Horace  "  a))i)eared,  and  in 
it  Pope  attacked  Lady  Mary  Avitli  the  grossest  and 
most  indecent  couplet  ever  printed :  she  Avas  called 
Sappho,  and  Hervey,  Lord  Fanny  ;  and  all  the  Avorld 
knew  the  characters  at  once. 

In  retaliation  for  this  satire,  appeared  "Verses  to 
the  Imitator  of  Horace;"  snid   to  hiive  ))een  the  joint 


rol'KS   LINES  ON    LOIll)    HI-RVKY.  fill 

production  of  Lord  Ilorvey  aii<l  Lady  Mary.  This 
•was  followed  liy  a  \)\vce  entitled  "Letter  from  a 
Noblciiiaii  at  Hampton  Court  to  a  Doctor  of  Divin- 
ity." To  this  composition  Lord  Ilervey,  its  sole 
author,  added  these  lines,  by  way,  as  it  seems,  of 
extenuation. 

Pope's  first  rejily  was  in  a  prose  letter,  on  which 
Dr.  Johnson  has  passed  a  condemnation.  "  It  ex- 
hibits," he  says,  "nothing  but  tedious  malignity." 
But  he  was  partial  to  the  Ilerveys,  Thomas  and  Henry 
Hervey,  Lord  Ilervey 's  brothers,  having  been  kind  to 
him — "  If  you  call  a  dog  Hervey,'"  he  said  to  Boswell, 
"  I  shall  love  him." 

Next  came  the  epistle  to  Dr.  Arbuthnot,  in  which 
every  infirmity  and  peculiarity  of  Ilervey  are  handed 
down  in  calm,  cruel  irony,  and  polished  verses,  to  pos- 
terity. The  verses  arc  almost  too  disgusting  to  l)c  re- 
vived in  an  a";e  which  disclaims  scurrilitv-  After  the 
most  personal  rancorous  invective,  he  thus  writes  of 
Lord  Ilervey 's  conversation: 

His  wit  all  s('(-s,nv  lietween  this  and  thai — 
Now  lii,e;li,  now  low — now  mrmlrr  up,  now  w(i.s.s — 
And  ho  himself  one  wild  •antithesis. 

vr  *  v>  •»  *  * 

Fop  ;U  the  toilet,  flatterer  at  the  lioard, 

Now  trips  a  lady,  and  now  struts  a  lord. 

Eve's  tempter,  thus  the  rabbins  have  expressed — 

A  cherub's  face — a  reptile  all  the  rest. 

Keauty  that  shocks  yon,  facts  that  none  can  trust, 

Wit  that  can  creep,  and  pride  that  bites  the  dust." 


312  IIERVEY'S   DUEL   WITH   TULTENEY. 

"  It  is  impossible,"  Mr.  Croker  thinks,  "  not  to  ad- 
mire, however  we  may  condemn,  the  art  by  which 
acknowled<fed  wit,  1)cauty,  and  gentle  manners — the 
f[ueen's  favor — and  even  a  valetudinary  diet,  are 
travestie<l  into  the  most  odious  offences." 

Pope,  in  two  lines,  pointed  to  the  intimacy  between 
Lady  Mary  and  Lord  Ilervey  : — 

"  Once,  iinrl  l)nt  once,  this  lieedless  youth  was  Iiif, 
And  liked  tliat  dangerous  tiling,  a  female  wit." 

Nevertheless,  he  aftenvards  pretended  that  tlie  name 
of  iSappho  was  not  applied  to  Lady  Mary,  but  to  women 
in  general ;  and  acted  with  a  degree  of  mean  prevari- 
cation which  greatly  added  to  the  amount  of  his  offence. 
The  quarrel  with  Pope  was  not  the  only  attack 
which  Lord  Ilervey  had  to  encounter.  Among  tlic 
most  zealous  of  his  foes  was  Pulteney,  afterwards 
Lord  Bath,  the  rival  of  Sir  Robert  Walpolc,  and  the 
confederate  with  Bolingbroke  in  opposing  that  minister. 
Tlie  "  Craftsman,"  contained  an  attack  on  Pulteney, 
written,  with  great  ability,  by  Ilervey.  It  provoked 
a  Reply  from  Pulteney.  In  this  composition  he  spoke 
of  Hervey  as  "  a  thing  below  contempt,"  and  ridiculed 
liis  personal  appearance  in  the  grossest  terms.  A  d'u'l 
was  the  result,  the  ]):n'ties  meeting  bcliind  Arlington 
House,  in  Piccadillv,  wlicre  Mr.  Pulteney  had  tlic 
satisfaction  of  almost  running  Lord  Ilervey  through 
with  his  sword.  Luckily  the  poor  man  slipped  down, 
so   the   blow    was  evaded,  and  the  seconds    interfered  : 


"i»i:\i"ii  di''  LoKD  iii:i;\'i;y:  a  i»i:a.ma."     ;;i;', 

Mr.  I'liliciicv  llicii  ciiibracrd  Lnjd  I  Icrvoy,  and  oxpross- 
iiiijr  his  rc'irrct  lur  llicir  ((ii;irrcl,  (IccLircd  that  he  woiihl 
never  a;iaiii,  either  in  speecli  <ir  writing,  attaek  liis  h>r(l- 
ship.  Loid  llervev  onlv  bowed,  in  silence;  and  thus 
tliey  parted. 

The  (|iiecn  having  ob.scrved  wliat  an  alteration  in 
the  j)ahiee  Lord  ITervcy's  death  wouKl  cause,  he  said 
he  couhl  guess  how  it  ■\vouhl  Ite,  and  he  pro(kiced  "  The 
Death  of  Ijord  llervey  ;  or,  a  ^Morning  at  Court;  a 
Drama:""  the  idea  being  taken,  it  is  thought,  from 
Swift's  verses  on  his  own  deatli,  of  which  Hervey 
might  liavc  seen  a  Hurre])titious  copy.  The  following 
scene  Avill  give  some  idea  of  the  plot  and  structure  of 
this  amusing  little  piece.  The  part  allotted  to  the 
Princess  Caroline  is  in  imison  with  the  idea  prevalent 
of  her  attachment  to  Lortl  llervey  : — 

vVcT  r. 

Scene  :  The  QueeiiJs  G'ulkni.     The  lime,  nine  in  the  mominr/. 

Enter  (he  (iiEi:x,  Princess  Emii.v,  Princess  Caroline,  ful- 
lowed  by  Lord  LiFKORn,  ami  Mrs.  Pircel. 

Queen.  Mon  IMoii,  riticlle  chak'ur!  on  V(?rite  on  c'toude.  Pniy 
open  11  little  those  windows. 

Lord  Lifford.  Ilasa  your  Majesty  heani  de  news? 

Queen.  \\\y.\{  news,  my  dear  LorI? 

Lord  Lifford.  I>at  my  I.ord  llervey,  as  lie  was  cominf]^  last  ni^lit 
to  (oiir^  was  rol>  and  murdered  l>y  hif^hwaynien  and  tron  in  a 
diteh. 


Priaeeiw  Ciirolinc.  \\h\  i;iaiiil  hi 


ell  : 


Quern  [.s/r//-/»7  her  hand  iijkiii  hrr  kiirr.']  ( 'ntnment  est-il  veritalile- 
nient  nmrt'/      I'unel,  my  angel,  .sIkiII  1  imi    Ikivc  a  liKic  Iimiktast  ? 


314  CARD-TABLE  CONVERSATION. 

Mrs.  PtnreL  What  would  your  ^Majesty  please  to  have? 

Queen.  A  little  chocolate,  my  soul,  if  you  give  me  leave,  and  a 
little  sour  cream  and  some  fruit.  [Exit  Mrs.  Purcel. 

Queen  [to  Lord  Lifford.]  Eh  bien  !  ray  Lord  Liflbrd,  dites-nous 
un  peu  comment  cela  est  arrive.  I  cannot  imagine  what  he  had  to 
do  to  be  putting  his  nose  there.  Seulement  pour  un  sot  voyage 
avec  ce  petit  mousse,  eh  bien? 

Lord  Lifford.  Madame,  on  scait  quelque  chose  de  celui  de  Mon. 
Maran,  qui  d'abord  qu'il  a  vu  les  voleurs  s'est  enfin  venu  a  grand 
galojipe  a  Londres,  and  after  dat  a  wagoner  take  up  the  body  and 
put  it  in  his  cart. 

Queen  \_(o  Princess  Emily.]  Are  you  not  ashamed,  Amalie,  to 
laugh  ? 

Princess  Emih/.     I  only  laughed  at  the  cart,  mamma. 

Queen.  Oh  !  tliat  is  very  fade  plaisanterie. 

Princess  Emily.  But  if  I  may  say  it,  mamma,  I  am  not  very 
sorry. 

Queen.  Oh  !  fie  done  I  Eh  h'lon  !  my  Lord  Liflbrd  !  My  God ! 
where  is  this  chocolate,  Purcel  ? 

As  Mr.  Croker  remarks,  Queen  Caroline's  break- 
fast-table, and  her  parentheses,  reminds  one  of  the 
card-table  conversation  of  Swift : — 

"The  Dean's  dead:  (pray  wliat  arc  trumps?) 
Then  L<u-d  have  mercy  on  his  soul  ! 
(Ladies,  Pll  venture  for  the  vole.) 
Six  Deans,  they  say,  must  bear  the  pall ; 
(I  wish  1  knew  what  king  to  call.)" 

Fragile  as  was  Lord  Ilervey's  constitution,  it  was 
his  lot  to  Avitness  the  dcath-l)ed  of  the  queen,  for  Aviiose 
amusement  he  had  ])ennod  tlio  jeu  d"esi)rit  just  (pioted, 
in  which  tliere  was,  perliaps,  as  much  truth  as  wit. 


QUEEN  CAROLINE'S   LAST  DRAWING-ROOM.     31  o 

The  wrctclici]  Queen  rm-olinc  liinl.  during  I'ourtcen 
years,  concealed  from  every  one,  except  Lady  Sundon, 
an  incurable  disorder,  that  of  hernia.  In  Noveniher 
(17-57)  she  was  attacked  with  what  we  should  now  call 
English  cholera.  Dr.  Tessier,  her  house-physician, 
was  called  in.  and  gave  her  Daffey's  elixir,  which  was 
not  likely  to  aiVord  any  relief  to  the  deep-seated  cause 
of  her  sufferings.  She  held  a  drawing-room  that  night 
for  the  last  time,  and  ])layed  at  cards,  even  cheerfully. 
At  length  she  Avhispered  to  l^ord  Ilervey,  "  I  am  not 
aide  to  entertain  people."  ''  For  heavens  sake, 
madam,"  was  the  reply,  "go  to  your  room:  Avould  to 
heaven  the  kino;  would  leave  off  talking  of  the  Dragon 
of  AVantlcy,  and  release  you  I"  The  Dragon  of  Want- 
ley  was  a  l)urles(juc  on  the  Italian  opera,  by  Henry 
Carey,  and  was  the  theme  of  the  fashionable  world. 

The  next  day  the  queen  was  in  fearful  agony,  very 
hot,  and  willing  to  take  anything  proposed.  Still  she 
did  not,  even  to  Lord  Ilervey,  avow  the  real  cause  of 
her  illness.  None  of  the  most  learned  court  physicians, 
neither  Mead  nor  AVilmot,  were  called  in.  Lord  Her- 
vey  sat  by  the  queen's  bed-side,  and  tried  to  soothe 
her,  Avhilst  the  Princess  Caroline  joined  in  begging 
him  to  o-ive  her  mother  something  to  relieve  her  aironv. 
At  length,  in  utter  ignorance  of  the  case,  it  was  pro- 
posed to  give  her  some  snakeroot,  a  stimulant,  and,  at 
the  same  time,  Sir  Walter  Raleigh's  cordial ;  so  singu- 
lar was  it  thus  to  find  that  great  mind  still  influencing 
a  court.      It  was  that  very  medicine  which  was  admin- 


316  ITER  ILLNESS   AND  AGONY. 

istercd  Ijy  Queen  Anno  of  Dennnark,  however,  to 
Prince  Henry ;  that  medicine  ■\vliich  Raleigh  said, 
"  Avould  cure  him,  or  any  other,  of  a  disease,  except  in 
case  of  poison." 

However,  Ranby,  house-surgeon  to  the  king,  and  a 
favorite  of  Lord  Ilervev's,  assurinir  him  that  a  cordial 
with  tliis  name  or  that  name  was  mere  (juackery,  some 
usquebaugh  was  given  instead,  but  was  rejected  by  the 
queen  soon  afterwards.  At  last  Raleigh's  cordial  was 
administered,  but  also  rejected  about  an  hour  after- 
Avards.  Her  fever,  after  taking  Raleigh's  cordial,  was 
so  much  increased,  that  she  was  ordered  instantly  to 
be  bled. 

Then,  even,  the  queen  never  disclosed  the  fact  that 
could  alone  dictate  the  course  to  be  pursued.  George 
II.,  with  more  feeling  than  judgment,  slept  on  the 
outside  of  the  queen's  bed  all  that  night ;  so  tliat  the 
unhappy  invalid  could  get  no  rest,  nor  change  her 
position,  not  daring  to  irritate  the  king's  temper. 

Tlie  next  day  the  queen  said  touchingly  to  her  gen- 
tle, affectionate  daugliter,  herself  in  declining  health, 
"  Poor  Caroline  !  you  are  very  ill,  too :  we  shall  soon 
meet  again  in  another  j>lacc." 

Meantime,  though  the  (jueen  declare<l  to  every  one 
th:it  she  was  sure  nothing  could  save  her,  it  was  re- 
solved to  hold  a  1crr(\  The  foreign  ministers  were  to 
come  to  court,  imd  the  king,  in  the  midst  of  bis  real 
grief,  did  not  forget  to  send  word  to  bis  pnges  to  be 
sure  to  b;ive   bis  last    \\v\s  niflles  sewed  on  tbe  shirt  lie 


Till':  qt:k!-:n  kkeps  111:11  secret.        ;;i7 

■was  to  ]>iil  oil  tli;it  il;iy  :  :i  tridc  wliicli  often,  ns  Lord 
llcrvcv  remarks,  slious  more  of  tlie  real  eliavaeter 
than  events  of  im|>ortanee,  from  wliieh  one  frenueiitly 
knows  no  inoi'c  of  ;i  jierson  s  state  of  niin<l  tlian  one 
docs  of  his  natural   -iait  from  liis  dancing. 

Tjady  Siimlon  was,  meantime,  ill  at  Bath,  so  that 
the  (jueens  secret  rested  alone  in  her  o\vn  heart.  "  I 
have  an  ill,"  she  said,  one  evening,  to  her  daughter 
Caroline,  ''  that  nohody  knows  of."  Still,  neither  the 
princess  nor  Lord  Ilervey  could  guess  at  the  full  mean- 
ing of  that  sad  assertion. 

The  famous  Sir  Ilans  Sloane  was  then  called  in  ;  but 
no  remedy  except  large  and  repeated  bleedings  were 
suiTjiested,  and  Idisters  were  ])ut  on  her  legs.  There 
seems  to  have  been  no  means  left  untried  liy  the 
faculty  to  hasten  the  catastrophe — thus  working  in  the 
dark. 

The  king  now  sat  up  with  her  whom  he  had  so 
cruelly  wounded  in  every  nice  feeling.  On  being 
asked,  l)y  Lord  Ilcrvoy,  what  was  to  be  done  in  case 
tlie  Prince  of  Wales  should  come  to  in(|uire  after  the 
(jueen,  he  answered  in  the  following  terms,  worthy  of 
his  ancestry — worthy  of  himself  It  is  difficult  to  say 
Avhieh  was  the  most  ])ninful  scene,  that  in  the  chamber 
where  the  (jueon  lay  in  agony,  or  without,  Avhere  the 
curse  of  family  dissensions  came  like  a  ghoul  to  hover 
near  the  bod  of  deatli,  and  to  gloat  over  the  royal 
corpse.  This  was  the  royal  dictum  : — "  If  the  puppy 
should,   in  one  of  his    impertinent    airs   of  duty  and 


318  A  PAINFUL  SCENE. 

affection,  dare  to  come  to  St.  James's,  I  order  you  to 
go  to  the  scoundrel,  and  tell  liim  I  wonder  at  his  im- 
pudence for  daring  to  come  here ;  that  he  has  my 
orders  already,  and  knows  my  pleasure,  and  bid  him 
go  about  his  business  ;  for  his  poor  mother  is  not  in  a 
condition  to  see  him  act  his  false,  whinino;,  crino-ino- 
tricks  now,  nor  am  I  in  a  humor  to  bear  Avith  his  im- 
pertinence ;  and  bid  him  trouble  me  with  no  more  mes- 
sages, but  get  out  of  my  house." 

In  the  evening,  whilst  Lord  Hervey  sat  at  tea  in  the 
queen's  outer  apartment  with  the  Duke  of  Cumberland, 
a  page  came  to  the  duke  to  speak  to  the  prince  in  the 
passage.  It  was  to  prefer  a  request  to  see  his  mother. 
This  message  was  conveyed  by  Lord  Hervey  to  the 
king,  whose  reply  was  uttered  in  the  most  vehement 
rage  possible.  ''This,"  said  he,  "is  like  one  of  his 
scoundrel  tricks;  it  is  just  of  a  piece  with  his  kneeling 
down  in  the  dirt  before  the  n'iob  to  kiss  her  hand  at  the 
coach  door  when  she  came  home  from  Hampton  Court 
to  see  the  Princess,  though  he  had  not  spoken  one  word 
to  her  during  her  Avhole  visit.  I  always  hated  the 
rascal,  but  now  I  hate  him  worse  than  ever.  He  wants 
to  come  and  insult  his  poor  dying  mother  ;  but  she  shall 
not  see  him  :  you  have  heard  her,  and  all  my  daudi- 
ters  have  heai'd  her,  very  often  this  year  at  TLimpton 
Court  desire  me  if  she  should  be  ill,  and  out  of  her 
senses,  that  I  would  never  let  him  come  near  her ; 
and  whilst  she  had  her  senses  she  was  sure  she  should 


THE  TRUTH  DIHCOVKRED.  319 

never   desire   it.      No,  im  !   lie  sIimU   nut  come  inid  act 
any  of  liis  silly  pluys  here.  " 

In  the  afternoon  the  (|iieen  said  to  the  king,  .she 
"wondered  tlie  Griff,  a  iiickiiaine  she  gave  to  the  prince, 
liad  not  sent  to  in(|uire  after  her  yet  ;  it  would  he  so 
like  one  of  his  j^aroltres.  "  Sooner  or  later,"  she  added, 
"  I  am  sure  we  .shall  be  plagued  with  some  mes.sagc  of 
that  sort,  because  he  will  tliiid<  it  will  have  a  good  air 
in  the  worhl  to  ask  to  see  me  ;  and,  |jerhaj)S,  hopes  I 
shall  be  fool  enough  to  let  him  come,  and  give  him  the 
pleasure  of  seeing  the  hist  breath  go  out  of  my  body, 
by  which  means  he  would  have  the  joy  of  knowing  I 
Avas  dead  five  minutes  sooner  than  he  could  know  it  in 
Pall  Mall." 

She  afterwards  declared  that  nothing:  wouhl  induce 
her  to  see  him  except  the  king's  absolute  commands. 
"Therefore,  if  I  grow  worse,"  she  said,  ''and  should  T 
be  weak  enougli  to  talk  of  seeing  him,  I  beg  you,  sir, 
to  conclude  that  I  dote — or  rave." 

'i'lic  king,  who  had  long  since  guessed  at  the  queen's 
di.sease,  urged  her  now  to  permit  liim  to  name  it  to  her 
physicians.  She  begged  him  not  to  do  so;  and  for  the 
first  time,  and  the  hist,  the  unliaj)]>y  Avoman  spoke 
peevishly  and  warmly.  Then  llanby,  the  house-sur- 
geon, Avho  had  by  this  time  discovered  the  truth,  said, 
"There  is  no  more  time  to  be  lost;  your  Majesty  has 
concealed  the  truth  too  lonj; :  I  berj  another  sur<»;eon 
may  be  called  in  immediately." 

The  queen,  who  had.  in  her  passion,  started  up  in 


320  THE  HATED  "GRIFF." 

lior  bed,  lay  doAvii  iigain,  turned  her  liead  on  tlie  otlier 
side,  and,  as  tlie  king  told  Lord  Ilervey,  "shed  the 
only  tear  ho  ever  saw  her  shed  whilst  she  was  ill." 

At  length,  too  late,  other  and  more  sensible  means 
were  resorted  to :  but  the  ({ueen's  strength  Avas  foiling 
fast.  It  must  have  been  a  strange  scene  in  that  cham- 
ber of  death.  Much  as  the  king  really  grieved  for  the 
queen's  state,  he  was  still  sufficiently  collected  to  grieve 
also  lest  Richmond  Lodge,  which  was  settled  on  the 
queen,  should  go  to  the  hated  Griff: '  and  he  actually 
sent  Lord  Ilervey  to  the  lord  chancellor  to  inquire 
about  that  point.  It  was  decided  that  the  queen  could 
make  a  will,  so  the  king  informed  her  of  his  inquiries, 
in  order  to  set  her  mind  at  ease,  and  to  assure  her  it 
was  impossible  that  the  prince  could  in  any  way  benefit 
pecuniarily  from  her  death.  The  Princess  Emily  now 
sat  up  with  her  mother.  The  king  Avent  to  bed.  The 
Princess  Caroline  slept  on  a  couch  in  the  ante-chamber, 
and  Lord  Hcrvoy  lay  on  a  mattress  on  the  floor  at  the 
foot  of  the  Princess  Caroline's  couch. 

On  the  following  day  (four  after  the  first  attack) 
mortification  came  on,  and  the  weeping  Princess  Caro- 
line and  Lord  Ilervey  Avere  informed  that  the  queen 
could  not  hold  out  many  hours.  Ijord  Ilervey  Avas 
ordered  to  AvithdraAV.  The  king,  the  Duke  of  Cumber- 
land, and  the  queen's  four  daughters  alone  remained, 
the  queen  begging  tliem  not  to  leave  liei'  until  she  ex- 
pired; yet  her  life  Avas  prolonged  many  days. 

'  rrince  l^'redcrick. 


THE  QUEEN'S   DYINC;    r.l'.QrESTS.  321 

Wlicn  iilone  with  lu-r  familv,  slic  took  from  licr 
finger  a  ruby  ring,  which  hail  hern  ])lacc'il  on  it  at 
tlic  time  of"  the  coronation,  ami  irave  it  to  the  kin<;. 
"This  is  the  last  thing,"  she  said,  "I  have  to  give 
yon  ;  naked  I  came  to  you,  and  nake<l  I  go  from  you  ; 
I  had  everything  I  ever  possessed  from  you,  and  to 
you  whatever  I  liavo  I  return."  She  tiien  asked  for 
her  keys,  and  gave  them  to  the  king.  To  the  Princess 
Caroline  she  intrusted  the  care  of  her  voun;;er  sisters : 
to  the  Duke  of  Cumberlaml,  that  of  keeping  up  the 
credit  of  the  family.  "Attempt  nothing  against  your 
brother,  and  endeavor  to  mortify  him  by  showing 
superior  merit,"  she  said  to  him.  She  advised  the 
king  to  marry  again  ;  he  heard  her  in  sol)S,  and  with 
iniich  dilhculty  got  out  this  sentence:  '■'■  Non,  f  aural 
des  )naitresses."  To  which  tlie  (jueen  made  no  other 
re])ly  than  '■^  Ah,  vion  Dicu!  ccla  nemp^che  pas.'' 
"I  know,"  says  Lord  Ilervey,  in  his  Memoirs,  "that 
this  episode  will  hardly  be  credited,  but  it  is  literally 
true. 

She  then  fancied  she  could  sleep.  The  king  kissed 
her,  and  wejjt  over  her;  yet  Avhen  she  asked  for  her 
watcli,  which  hung  near  the  chimney,  that  she  might 
give  him  the  seal  to  take  care  of,  his  brutal  temper 
liroke  forth.  In  the  midst  of  his  tears  he  called  out, 
in  a  loud  voice,  "Let  it  alone!  won  Dieu  I  the  (jueen 
has  such  strange  fancies ;  who  should  meddle  with 
your  seal  ?     It  is  as  safe  there  as  in  my  pocket." 

The  (jueen  then  thought  she  could  sleep,  and,   in 

Vol.    I.— 21 


322  HER  SON'S  LOVING  ATTENTIONS. 

fact,  sank  to  rest.  She  felt  refreshed  on  awakening 
and  said,  "  I  wish  it  was  over ;  it  is  only  a  reprieve 
to  make  me  suffer  a  little  longer ;  I  cannot  recover, 
but  my  nasty  heart  will  not  break  yet."  She  had  an 
impression  that  she  should  die  on  a  Wednesday :  she 
had,  she  said,  been  born  on  a  Wednesday,  married 
on  a  Wednesday,  crowned  on  a  Wednesday,  her  first 
child  T.'as  born  on  a  Wednesday,  and  she  had  heard 
of  the  late  king's  death  on  a  Wednesday. 

On  the  ensuing  day  she  saw  Sir  Robert  Walpole. 
"My  good  Sir  Robert,"  she  thus  addressed  him,  "you 
see  me  in  a  very  indifferent  situation.  I  have  nothing 
to  say  to  you  but  to  recommend  the  king,  my  children, 
and  the  kingdom  to  your  care." 

Lord  Hervey,  when  the  minister  retired,  asked  him 
what  he  thought  of  the  queen's  state. 

"My  lord,"  was  the  reply,  "she  is  as  much  dead 
as  if  she  was  in  her  coffin  ;  if  ever  I  heard  a  corpse 
speak,  it  was  just  now  in  that  room  !" 

It  was  a  sad,  an  awful  death-bed.  The  Prince  of 
Wales  having  sent  to  inquire  after  the  health  of  his 
dying  mother,  the  (|ueen  became  uneasy  lest  he  should 
hear  the  true  state  of  her  case,  asking  "  if  no  one 
would  send  those  ravens,"  meaning  the  prince's  at- 
tendants, out  of  the  house.  "  They  were  only,"  she 
said,  "watching  her  death,  and  would  gladly  tear  her 
to  pieces  whilst  she  was  alive."  Whilst  thus  she 
spoke  of  her  son's  courtiers,  that  son  was  sitting  up 
all  nii;ht  in  his  bouse  in  Tall  INIall,  and  savins:,  when 


AKCinilSUOP  POTTKIl   IS  SENT  FOR.         32)] 

any  messenger  came  in  fiuni  St.  Jmnes's,  "Well,  sure, 
Ave  shall  soon  liiivc  good  news,  she  cannot  hold  out 
nuu-h  longer.'  And  the  princesses  were  •writing  let- 
ters to  prevent  the  Princess  Royal  from  coming  to 
England,  wliere  she  ■was  certain  to  mc^et  with  liiat.d 
unkindness  from  her  father,  wlio  could  not  endure  to 
be  put  to  any  expense.  Orders  ■were,  indeed,  sent  to 
stop  hor  if  she  set  out.  She  came,  however,  on  pre- 
tence of  takino;  the  Bath  waters:  hut  Georjie  II., 
furious  at  her  disobedience,  oblisjed  her  to  20  direct 
to  :ind  from  Bath  Avithout  stopping,  and  never  foi'gavc 
her. 

Notwithstanding  her  predictions,  the  queen  survivo<l 
the  fatal  Wednesday.  Until  this  time  no  pix'late  had 
been  called  in  to  pray  l»y  her  INIajesty,  nor  to  admin- 
ister the  Holy  Coniniiininn  ;  ;nid  as  people  about  tlie 
court  began  to  be  scandalized  by  this  omission,  Sir 
Rol)i'vt  Walpole  advised  that  the  Archbishop  (jf  Can- 
terbury should  be  sent  for:  his  opinion  Avas  conclied 
in  tlie  following  terms,  characteristic  at  once  of  the 
mail,   tlic  times,   and  the  court: — 

"  Pray,  madam,"  he  said  to  tlie  Princess  Emily, 
"  let  this  farce  be  played;  the  arcbbisho])  will  act  it 
very  well.  You  may  bid  him  be  as  short  as  you 
Avill  :  it  will  do  the  (|ueen  no  hurt,  no  more  than  anv 
good;  and  it  will  satisfy  all  the  Avise  and  good  fools, 
Avho  Avill  eall  us  atheists  if  Ave  don't  pretend  to  be  as 
great  fools  as  they  are." 

Unhappily,  Lord  Ilervey,  Avho  relates  this  anecdote. 


324  THE  DUTY   OF  EECONCILIATION. 

was  himself  an  unbeliever ;  yet  the  scoffing  tone  adopted 
by  Sir  Robert  seems  to  have  shocked  even  him. 

In  consequence  of  this  advice,  Archbishop  Potter 
prayed  by  the  queen  morning  and  evening,  the  king 
always  quitting  the  room  when  his  grace  entered  it. 
Her  children,  however,  knelt  bv  her  bedside.  Still 
the  whisperers  Avho  censured  were  unsatisfied — the  con- 
cession was  thrown  away.  Why  did  not  the  queen 
receive  the  communion  ?  Was  it,  as  the  world  believed, 
either  "  that  she  had  reasoned  herself  into  a  very  low 
and  cold  assent  to  Christianity?"  or  "that  she  was 
heterodox?"  or  "thnt  tlie  archbishop  refused  to  ad- 
minster  the  sacrament  until  she  should  be  reconciled 
to  her  son  ?"  Even  Lord  Ilervey,  who  rarely  left  the 
antechamber,  has  only  by  his  silence  proved  that  she 
did  not  take  the  communion.  That  antechamber  was 
crowded  with  persons  who,  as  the  prelate  left  the 
chamber  of  death,  crowded  around,  eagerly  asking, 
"Has  the  queen  received?"  "Her  Majesty,"  Avas 
the  evasive  reply,  "is  in  a  heavenly  disposition:" 
the  public  were  thus  deceived.  Among  those  who 
were  near  the  queen  at  tliis  solemn  hour  was  Dr.  But- 
ler, author  of  the  "Analogy."  He  had  been  made 
clerk  of  the  closet,  and  became,  after  the  queen's  death. 
Bishop  of  Bristol.  He  was  in  a  remote  living  in  Dur- 
ham when  the  queen,  remembering  that  it  was  long 
since  she  had  lieard  of  him,  asked  the  Archbishop  of 
York  "whetlier  Dr.  Butler  was  dead?" — "No,  mad- 
am," re])lied  tliat  pix'late  (Dr.  B]aekl)Ui-ii),  "l)ut  lie  is 


TIIK  T)YIX(;    (2UEEX.  325 

buried;"  upon  uhicli  slic  liad  sent  for  liiin  to  court. 
Yet  lie  was  not  courageous  enough,  it  seems,  to  speak 
to  lier  of  lier  son,  nihl  of  the  duty  of  reconciliation; 
■whether  slie  ever  sent  the  prince  any  message  or  not  is 
uncertain  ;  Lord  Ilervey  is  sih-nt  on  tliat  ])oint,  so  that 
it  is  to  be  feared  that  Lord  Chesterfiehl's  line — 

"Anil,   imrdrLiviiiir,  unforgivcn,  dies!" 

had  Imt  too  sure  a  foundation  in  fact ;  so  that  Pope's 
sarcastic  verses — 

"  Ilanpj  tlio  sad  verse  on  Carolina's  urn, 
And  hail  her  passage  to  the  realms  of  rest; 
All  parts  performed  and  all  her  children  blest," 

ninv  have  been  but  too  just,  though  cruelly  bitter. 
The  (jueen  lingered  till  the  20th  of  November.  Dur- 
ing that  interval  ol"  agony  her  consort  was  perpet- 
ually boasting  to  every  one  of  her  virtues,  her  sense, 
her  patience,  her  softness,  her  delicacy  ;  and  ending 
with  the  praise,  "  Comme  elle  soutenoit  sa  dignite  avec 
grace,  avec jyoUtcsse,  avec  douceur!"  Nevertheless  he 
scarcely  ever  went  into  her  room.  Lord  Hervey  states 
that  he  did,  even  in  this  moving  situation,  snul>  her 
for  something  or  other  she  did  or  said.  One  morning, 
as  she  lay  witli  her  eyes  fixed  on  a  point  in  the  air,  as 
people  sometimes  do  wlien  they  want  to  keep  their 
thoughts  IVom  wandering,  the  king  coarsely  told  her 
"slie  looked  like  a  ealf  whieh  had  Just  had  its  throat 
cut."      He  expected   her  to  die  in  state.      Then,  with 


326    THE  DEATH  OF  QUEEN  CAEOLINE. 

all  liis  bursts  of  tenderness  ho  always  mingled  liis  own 
praises,  hinting  that  though  she  was  a  good  wife  he 
kneAV  he  had   deserved   a  good  one,  and  remarking-, 

CD  f  ^1 

when  he  extolled  her  understanding,  that  he  did  not 
"  think  it  the  worse  for  her  having  kept  him  company 
so  many  years."  To  all  this  Lord  Hervey  listened 
with,  doubtless,  well-concealed  disgust ;  for  cabals  were 
even  then  formino;  for  the  future  influence  that  mi<Tht 
or  might  not  be  obtained. 

The  queen's  life,  meantime,  was  softly  ebbing  away 
in  this  atmosphere  of  selfishness,  brutality,  and  unbe- 
lief. One  evening  she  asked  Dr.  Tessier  impatiently 
how  long  her  state  might  continue. 

"Your  Majesty,"  was  the  reply,  "  Avill  soon  be  re- 
leased." 

"  So  much  the  better,"  the  queen  calmly  answered. 

At  ten  o'clock  that  night,  whilst  the  king  lay  at  the 
foot  of  her  bed,  on  the  floor,  and  the  Princess  Emily 
on  a  couch-bed  in  the  room,  the  fearful  death-rattle  in 
the  throat  was  heard.  Mrs.  Purcel,  her  chief  and  old 
attendant,  gave  the  alarm:  the  Princess  Caroline  and 
Lord  Hervey  were  sent  for  ;  but  the  princess  was  too 
late,  her  mother  had  expired  before  she  arrived.  All 
the  dying  queen  said  was,  "  I  have  now  got  an  asthma; 
open  the  window:"  then  she  added,  "■  Pm}) l"  That 
was  her  last  word.  As  the  Princess  Emily  began  to 
read  some  prayers,  the  sufferer  breathed  her  last  sigh. 
The  Princess  Caroline  held  a  looking-glass  to  her  lips, 
and    finding   there   Avas    no    damp  on   it,   said,   "  'Tis 


A   CIIAXdK   I.\    IIEKVEY'S  LIFE.  ,327 

over  i"  Yet  she  shed  not  one  tear  upon  the  arrival  of 
tliat  event,  tlie  prospect  of  which  had  cost  her  so  many 
heart-rendino;  sohs. 

The  king  kissed  tlic  lifeless  face  and  hands  of  his 
often-injured  wife,  and  then  retired  to  his  own  apart- 
ment, ordering  that  a  page  should  sit  up  with  him  for 
that  and  several  other  nights,  for  his  Majesty  was 
afraid  of  apparitions,  and  feared  to  l)c  left  alone.  He 
caused  himself,  however,  to  be  buried  by  the  side  of 
his  queen,  in  Henry  VII. 's  chapel,  and  ordered  that 
one  side  of  his  coffin  and  of  hers  should  be  withdrawn  ; 
and  in  that  state  the  two  coffins  were  discovered  not 
many  years  ago. 

With  the  death  of  Queen  Caroline,  Lord  Ilervey's 
life,  as  to  court,  was  changed.  He  was  afterwards 
made  lord  privy  seal,  and  had  consequently  to  enter 
the  political  world,  witli  the  disadvantage  of  knowing 
that  much  was  expected  from  a  man  of  so  high  a  repu- 
tation for  wit  and  learning.  He  was  violently  opposed 
by  Pelham,  Duke  of  Newcastle,  who  had  been  adverse 
to  his  entering  the  ministry,  and  since,  with  Walpole's 
favor,  it  was  impossible  to  injure  him  by  fair  means,  it 
was  resolved  to  oppose  Lord  Hervey  by  foul  ones.  One 
evening,  when  he  was  to  speak,  a  party  of  fashionable 
Amazons,  with  two  duchesses — her  grace  of  Queens- 
berry  and  her  grace  of  Ancaster — at  tlioir  head, 
stormed  the  House  of  Lords  and  disturbed  the  de- 
bate with  noisy  laugliter  and  sneers.  Poor  Lord 
Hervey    was    completely    daunted,   and    spoke    miser- 


328  LOSS  OF  COUET  I^'FLUENCE. 

ably.  After  Sir  Robert  Walpole's  fall  Lord  Ilervey 
retired.  The  following  letter  from  liim  to  Lady  Mary 
Wortley  Montagu  fully  describes  his  position  and  cir- 
cumstances : — 

"  I  must  now,"  he  writes  to  her,  "  since  you  take  so 
friendly  a  part  in  what  concerns  me,  give  you  a  short 
account  of  my  natural  and  political  health  ;  and  Avhen 
I  say  I  am  still  alive,  and  still  privy  seal,  it  is  all  I 
can  say  for  the  pleasure  of  one  or  the  honor  of  the 
other ;  for  since  Lord  Orford's  retiring,  as  I  am  too 
proud  to  offer  my  service  and  friendship  where  I  am 
not  sure  they  will  be  accepted  of,  and  too  inconsiderable 
to  have  those  advances  made  to  me  (though  I  never 
forgot  or  failed  to  return  any  obligation  I  ever  re- 
ceived), so  I  remain  as  illustrious  a  nothing  in  this 
office  as  ever  filled  it  since  it  was  erected.  There 
is  one  benefit,  however,  I  enjoy  from  this  loss  of 
my  court  interest,  which  is,  that  all  those  flies  which 
were  hnzz'nm  about  me  in  the  summer  sunshine  and 
full  ripeness  of  that  interest,  have  all  deserted  its 
autumnal  decay,  and  from  thinking  my  natural  death 
not  far  off,  and  my  political  demise  already  over,  have 
all  furti-ot  the  death-bed  of  the  one  and  the  coffin  of  the 
other." 

Agnin  lie  wrote  to  her  a  characteristic  letter: — 
"  i  liave  been  confined  these  three  weeks  by  a  fever, 
Avliicb  is  a  sort  of  annual  tax  my  detestable  constitution 
pa^'s  to  our  detestable  climate  at  the  return  of  every 


LOKD  IIEKVEY'S  DEATH.  329 

spring ;    it    is    now   nmcli    al^ated,    though    not    quite 
gone  off." 

lie  was  long  a  helpless  invalid;  and  on  tlie  8th  of 
August,  1743,  his  short,  uni:)rofitablc,  brilliant,  un- 
liajipy  life  was  closed,  lie  died  at  Ickworth,  attended 
and  deplored  by  his  wife,  who  had  ever  held  a  second- 
ary part  ill  the  heart  of  the  great  wit  and  beau  of  the 
court  of  George  II.  After  his  death  his  son  George 
returned  to  Lady  ]\Iary  all  the  letters  she  had  written 
to  his  father  :  the  packet  was  sealed  :  an  assurance  was 
at  the  same  time  given  that  they  had  not  been  read. 
In  acknowledging  this  act  of  attention,  Lady  ]Mary 
wrote  that  she  could  almost  regret  that  he  had  not 
glanced  his  eye  over  a  correspondence  Avhich  might 
have  shown  him  what  so  young  a  man  might  perhaps 
be  inclined  to  doubt — "  the  possibility  of  a  long  and 
steady  friendship  subsisting  between  two  persons  of 
different  sexes  without  the  least  mixture  of  love." 

Nevertheless  some  expressions  of  Lord  Hervey's 
seem  to  have  bordered  on  the  tender  style,  when 
writing  to  Lady  Mary  in  such  terms  as  these.  She 
had  complaiiuMl  that  she  Avas  too  old  to  inspire  a  pas- 
sion (a  sort  of  challenge  for  a  compliment),  on  which 
he  wrote :  "  I  should  think  anybody  a  great  fool  that 
said  he  liked  spring  better  than  summer,  merely 
because  it  is  further  from  autumn,  or  that  thvy  loved 
green  fruit  better  than  ripe  only  because  it  was  further 
from  ])eing  rotten.  I  ever  diil,  and  believe  ever  shall, 
like  wouKin  best — 


330  PLATONIC  LOVE. 

'Just  in  the  noon  of  life — tliose  golden  days, 
When  the  mind  ripens  ere  the  form  decays.' " 

Certainly  this  looks  very  unlike  a  pure  Platonic, 
and  it  is  not  to  be  wondered  at  that  Lady  Ilervey 
refused  to  call  on  Lady  Mary  when,  long  after  Lord 
Hervey's  death,  that  fascinating  woman  returned  to 
England.  A  wit,  a  courtier  at  the  very  fount  of  all 
politeness,  Lord  Ilervey  wanted  the  genuine  source  of 
all  social  qualities — Christianity.  That  moral  refrig- 
erator which  checks  the  kindly  current  of  neighborly 
kindness,  and  which  prevents  all  genial  feeling  from 
expanding,  produced  its  usual  effect — misanthropy. 
Lord  Hervey's  lines,  in  his  "  Satire  after  the  man- 
ner of  Persius,"  describe  too  well  his  own  mental 
canker : — 

"Mankind  I  know,  their  motives  and  their  art, 
Their  vice  their  own,  their  virtue  best  apart. 
Till  played  so  oft,  that  all  the  cheat  can  tell, 
And  dangerous  only  when  'ih  acted  well." 

Lord  Hervey  left  in  the  possession  of  his  family  a 
manuscript  Avork,  consisting  of  memoirs  of  his  own 
time,  written  in  his  own  autograph,  which  was  clean 
and  legible.  This  work,  which  has  furnished  many 
of  the  anecdotes  connected  with  his  court  life  in  tlic 
foregoing  pages,  was  long  guarded  from  the  eye  of  any 
but  the  Ilervey  family,  owing  to  an  injunction  given 
ill  Ills  will  liy  Augustus,  tliird  Earl  of  Pristol,  Lord 
llei'vey's  sun,   tliat  it  sliould  not  see  the  liglit  until 


MEMOIKS  OF  III8  OWN  TIME.  331 

after  the  death  of  liis  Majesty  George  ITT.  Tt  Avas  not 
therefore  published  until  184S,  ulicii  tliey  were  edited 
by  Mr.  Croker,  They  arc  referred  to  1)otli  by  Hor- 
ace Walpole,  who  had  heard  of  tlieni,  if  he  had  not 
seen  them,  and  by  Lord  ITailes,  as  aflbrding  the  most 
intimate  portraiture  of  a  court  that  has  ever  been  pre- 
sented to  the  English  people.  Such  a  delineation  as 
Lord  Ilervey  has  left  ought  to  cause  a  sentiment  of 
tluiiik fulness  in  every  British  heart  for  not  being  ex- 
posed to  such  influences,  to  such  examples  as  he  gives, 
in  the  present  day,  when  goodness,  affection,  purity, 
benevolence,  are  the  household  deities  of  the  court  of 
our  beloved,  inestimable  Queen  Victoria. 


PHILIP  DORMEPv  STANHOPE,   FOURTH 
EARL  OF   CHESTERFIELD. 

The  subject  of  this  memoir  may  be  thought  by  some 
rather  the  modeller  of  wits  than  the  original  of  that 
class;  the  great  critic  and  judge  of  manners  rather 
than  the  delight  of  the  dinner-table :  but  wo  are  told 
to  the  contrary  hy  one  who  loved  him  not.  Lord  Ilcr- 
vey  says  of  Lord  Chesterfield  that  he  was  "  allowed  by 
everybody  to  have  more  conversable  entertaining  table- 
wit  than  any  man  of  his  time ;  his  propensity  to  ridi- 
cule, in  Avhich  he  indulged  himself  with  infinite  humor 
and  no  distinction ;  and  his  inexhaustible  spirits,  and 
no  discretion ;  made  him  sought  and  feared — liked  and 
not  loved — by  most  of  liis  acquaintance." 

This  formidable  personage  was  born  in  London  on 
the  2d  day  of  September,  1694.  It  was  remarkable 
that  the  father  of  a  man  so  vivacious  should  liave  been 
of  a  morose  temper ;  all  the  wit  and  spirit  of  intrigue 
displayed  by  him  remind  us  of  the  frail  Lady  Chester- 
field, in  the  time  of  Charles  II.' — tliat  lady  who  was 
looked  on  as  a  martyr  because  her  husband  was  jealous 

'Tlic   ('(iimtess  of  (  licstcrfield   liciv  :illii(k'(l   to  was  tlic  second 
wife  of  I'liilip,  sc'coiiil  l<],nl  of  ('lu'sln-llfld.     l'liili|i  Dormer,  fourtli 
l']arl,  was  uraiidsoii  ol'  tlu'  si'coiul  Jvirl,  by  his  tliird  wife. 
o'62 


i31)ilip  XDormrr  Siani)ope, 
ifourti)  a?avl  of  <jri)estrrficlt). 


ooo 


EARLY   YEARS.  'V.V.\ 

of  licr  :  "  ii  prodigy,"  says  Dc  (Jraiuinont,  ''in  tlie  city 
of  London,"  Avliere  indulgent  critics  endeavored  to  ex- 
cuse his  lordship  on  account  of  his  bad  education,  and 
mothers  vowed  tliat  none  of  their  sons  sliould  ever  set 
font  in  Italy,  lest  they  should  "  l)ring  back  witli  them 
that  infauious  custom  of  laying  restraint  on  their 
■wives.  " 

Even  Horace  Walpole  cites  Chesterfield  as  the 
"witty  earl,"  apropos  to  an  anecdote  Avhich  he  re- 
lates of  an  Italian  lady,  who  said  that  she  Avas  only 
four-and-twenty ;  "  I  suppose,"  said  Lord  Chester- 
field,  "she  means  four-and-twenty  stone." 

By  his  father  the  future  wit,  historian,  and  orator 
Avas  utterly  neglected ;  Ijut  his  grandmother,  the 
Marchioness  of  Halifax,  sup])lied  to  him  the  {)lacc 
of  both  parents,  his  mother — lier  daughter.  Lady 
Elizabeth  Saville — having  died  in  his  childhood. 
At  the  aire  of  eiirhteon,  Chesterfield,  then  Lord 
Stanhope,  Avas  entered  at  Trinity  Hall,  Cambridge. 
It  Avas  one  of  the  features  of  his  character  to  fiill  at 
once  into  the  tone  of  the  society  into  Avhich  he  hap- 
pened to  be  throAvn.  One  can  hardly  imagine  his 
being  "an  absolute  pedant,"  but  such  Avas,  actually, 
his  own  account  of  himself : — "When  I  talked  my 
best,  I  quoted  Horace;  Avhcn  T  aimed  at  being  face- 
tious, I  quoted  Martial :  and  when  I  bail  a  mind  to  be 
a  fine  gentleman,  I  talked  Ovid.  1  Avas  convinced 
that  none  but  the  ancients  had  common  sense ;  that 
the  classics  contained  everytliing  that  Avas  either  neces- 


334  HIS  AIM   IN   LIFE. 

sary,  useful,  or  ornamental  to  men  ;  and  I  was  not 
even  Avithout  thoughts  of  wearing  the  toga  virilis  of 
the  Romans,  instead  of  the  vulgar  and  illiberal  dress 
of  the  moderns." 

Thus,  again,  when  in  Paris,  he  caught  the  manners, 
as  he  had  acquired  the  language,  of  the  Parisians. 
"  I  shall  not  give  you  my  opinion  of  the  French,  be- 
cause I  am  very  often  taken  for  one  of  them,  and 
several  have  paid  me  the  highest  compliment  they 
think  it  in  their  power  to  bestow — which  is,  '  Sir, 
you  are  just  like  ourselves.'  I  shall  only  tell  you 
that  I  am  insolent ;  I  talk  a  great  deal ;  I  am  very 
loud  and  peremptory ;  I  sing  and  dance  as  I  walk 
along ;  and,  above  all,  I  spend  an  immense  sum  in 
hair-powder,  feathers,  and  Avhite  gloves." 

Althouiih  he  entered  Parliament  before  he  had 
attained  the  legal  age,  and  was  expected  to  make  a 
great  figure  in  that  assembly,  Lord  Chesterfield  pre- 
ferred the  reputation  of  a  wit  and  a  beau  to  any  other 
distinction.  "  Call  it  vanity,  if  you  will,"  he  wrote 
in  after-life  to  his  son,  "  and  possibly  it  was  so ;  but 
my  great  object  was  to  make  every  man  and  every 
woman  love  me.  I  often  succeeded :  but  why  ?  by 
taking  great  pains." 

According  to  Lord  Ilcrvev's  account,  he  often  even 
sacrificed  his  interest  to  his  vanity.  The  description 
given  of  Lord  Chesterfield  by  one  as  l)ittcr  as  himself 
implies,  indeed,  that  great  pains  were  requisite  to 
counterbalance   the   defects   of    iintui-e.      Wilkes,    one 


IIERVEY'.S   DESCRIPTION  OF  ClIESTEKFIELD.   .335 

of"  the  uy;liest  men  of  his  time,  used  to  sav,  that  Avith 
au  hour's  start  he  would  carry  ofl'  the  affections  of"  any 
■woman  from  the  liandsomest  man  breathing.  Lord 
Chesterfield,  according  to  Lord  Ilervey,  recjuired  to 
be  still  longer  in  advance  of  a  rival. 

"With  a  person,"  Ilervey  writes,  "as  disagreeable 
as  it  -was  possible  for  a  human  figure  to  be  without 
being  deformed,  he  affected  following  many  women  of 
the  first  beauty  and  the  most  in  fashion.  lie  was  very 
short,  disproportioned,  thick  and  clumsily  made ;  had 
a  broad,  rough-featured,  ugly  face,  with  black  teeth, 
and  a  head  big  enough  for  a  Polyphemus.  One  Ben 
iVsliurst,  who  said  a  few  good  things,  though  admired 
for  many,  told  Lord  Chesterfield  once,  that  he  was 
like  a  stunted  giant — which  was  a  humorous  idea  and 
really  apposite." 

Notwithstanding  that  Chesterfield,  when  young,  in- 
jured both  soul  and  body  by  pleasure  and  dissipation, 
he  always  found  time  for  serious  study  :  when  he  could 
not  have  it  otherwise,  he  took  it  out  of  his  sleep.  IIow 
late  soever  lie  went  to  bed,  he  resolved  always  to  rise 
early  ;  and  this  resolution  he  adhered  to  so  faithfully, 
that  at  the  age  of  fifty-eight  he  could  declare  that  fur 
more  than  forty  years  he  had  never  been  in  bed  at 
nine  o'clock  in  the  morning,  but  had  generally  been 
up  before  eight.  He  had  the  good  sense,  in  this  re- 
spect, not  to  exaggerate  even  this  homely  virtue.  He 
did  not  rise  with  the  dawn,  as  many  early  risers  pride 
themselves  in  doing,  putting  all  the  engagements  of 


336  STUDY  OF  ORATOEY. 

ordinary  life  out  of  their  usual  beat,  just  as  if  tlie 
clocks  had  been  set  two  hours  for>yard.  The  man  in 
ordinary  society,  who  rises  at  four  in  this  country,  and 
goes  to  bed  at  nine,  is  a  social  and  family  nuisance. 

Strong  good  sense  characterized  Chesterfield's  early 
pursuits.  Desultory  reading  he  abhorred.  He  looked 
on  it  as  one  of  the  resources  of  age,  but  as  injurious 
to  the  young  in  the  extreme.  "  Throw  away,"  thus  he 
writes  to  his  son,  "  none  of  your  time  upon  those  triv- 
ial, futile  books  published  by  idle,  necessitous  authors 
for  the  amusement  of  idle  and  ignorant  readers." 

Even  in  those  days  such  books  "  swarm  and  buzz 
about  one:"  "flap  them  away,"  says  Chesterfield, 
"they  have  no  sting."  The  carl  directed  the  whole 
force  of  his  mind  to  oratory,  and  became  the  finest 
speaker  of  his  time.  Writing  to  Sir  Horace  Mann, 
about  the  Hanoverian  debate  (in  1743,  Dec.  15),  AVal- 
pole,  praising  the  speeches  of  Lords  Halifiix  and  Sand- 
wich, adds,  "  I  was  there,  and  heard  Lord  Chester- 
field make  the  finest  oration  I  have  ever  heard  there." 
This  from  a  man  who  had  listened  to  Pulteney,  to 
Chatham,  to  Carteret,  was  a  singularly  valuable  tribute. 

Whilst  a  student  at  Cambridge,  Chesterfield  Avas 
forming  an  acquaintance  with  the  Hon.  George  Berke- 
ley, the  youngest  son  of  the  second  Earl  of  Berkeley, 
and  remarkable  rather  as  being  the  second  husband  of 
Lady  Suffolk,  the  favorite  of  George  II.,  than  from 
any  merits  or  demerits  of  his  own. 

This  early  intimacy  probably  brought  Lord  Chester- 


Ttl'TY    OK    AN    AMHAS^AnOK.  .>:;/ 

field  into  tlif  r\n:.c  IViciidsliiii  w  liidi  ;iricr\v;inls  siilisi-^tcd 
l)ot\vc('ii  liiiii  ;iiid  Lady  Sidlolk,  to  wlioiii  many  of  liis 
letters  ai'e  addresse(l. 

His  first  |)nl)lic  ea))aeity  was  a  di].loniatie  aiqioint- 
nieiit  :  he  ai'terwards  attained  to  llie  rank  ot'an  andjas- 
sador,  \\!io-e  duty  it  is,  according  to  a  Avitticisni  of  Sir 
IK'iii-v  ^Votton's,  "  to  III'  abroad  for  the  •zood  of  his 
counti'y  ;"  and  no  man  was  in  this  respect  more  com- 
petent to  fullil  these  re(iuirements  than  Chesterfield. 
]Iatin<^  both  Avinc  and  tobacco,  he  had  smoked  and 
drunk  at  Cambridge,  "to  be  in  the  fashion;"  he 
gamed  at  tlie  Hague,  on  the  same  principle ;  and,  un- 
happily, gaming  became  a  habit  and  a  passion.  Yet 
never  did  he  induly-e  it  when  acting,  afterwards,  in  a 
ministerial  eaj)aeity.  Neither  when  Lord-Lieutenant 
of  Ireland,  or  as  Undcr-secretary  of  State,  diil  he 
allow  a  2;amin<2;-table  in  his  house.  On  the  very  night 
that  he  resigned  office  he  went  to  White  s. 

The  Hague  was  then  a  <-]iarming  residence:  among 
others  who,  from  political  motives,  were  living  there, 
were  John  Duke  of  jNLirlborough  and  Queen  Sarah, 
both  of  wliom  paid  Chesterfield  marked  attention. 
Naturally  industrious,  with  a  ready  insight  into  cha- 
racter— a  perfect  master  in  that  art  which  bids  ns  keep 
one's  thoughts  close  and  our  eount<  nances  ojien,  Ches- 
terfield was  ailmiral)ly  fitted  for  dij)loniacy.  A  master 
of  moileiii  laniiuaij-es  and  of  historv,  he  soon  l)ei:an  to 
like  liusiness.  When  in  England,  he  had  lieen  aeeused 
of  ha\ing  "  a  need  of  a  certain  proportion  n['  talk  in 
Vol.  1.— 22 


o 


38      "IIISTOIiY  OF  THE  REIGN  OF  GEOEGE  II." 


a  day:"  "that,"  ho  Avrote  to  Lady  Suffolk,  "is  noAv 
changed  into  a  need  of  such  a  proportion  of  writing  in 
a  (lay. 

In  1728  he  was  promoted,  being  sent  as  ambassa- 
dor to  the  Hague,  where  he  was  popuhir,  and  where  lie 
believed  his  stay  would  be  beneficial  both  to  soul  and 
body,  there  being  "  fewer  temptations,  and  fewer  op- 
portunities to  sin,"  as  he  wrote  to  Lady  Suffolk,  "  than 
in  England."  Here  his  days  passed,  he  asserted,  in 
doing  the  king's  business,  very  ill — and  his  own  still 
worse : — sitting  down  daily  to  dinner  with  fourteen  or 
fifteen  people ;  whilst  at  five  the  pleasures  of  the  even- 
ing began  with  a  lounge  on  the  Voorhoot,  a  public 
walk  planted  by  Charles  V.  : — then,  either  a  very  bad 
French  play,  or  a  ^^  reprise  quadrille,''  with  three 
ladies,  the  youngest  of  them  fifty,  and  the  chance  of 
losing,  perhaps,  three  florins  (besides  one's  time) — 
lasted  till  ten  o'clock  ;  at  which  time  "  His  Excellency  " 
went  home,  "  reflecting  with  satisfaction  on  the  inno- 
cent amusements  of  a  well-spent  day,  that  left  nothing 
behind  them,"  and  retired  to  bed  at  eleven,  "with  the 
testimony  of  a  good  conscience." 

All,  however,  of  Chesterfield's  time  was  not  passed 
in  this  serene  dissipation.  He  began  to  compose  "  The 
History  of  the  Reign  of  George  II."  at  this  period. 
About  onlv  half  a  dozen  characters  Avere  Avritten. 
Tlie  intention  Avas  not  confined  to  Chesterfield :  Car- 
teret and  Bolingbroke  entertained  a  similar  design, 
Avhicli  Avas  com])leted  by  neither.      When   tlie  subject 


GKORCK  ii;s  oriNiox  oi'  HIS  (  iiiioniclkks.  :i;i9 

^v;^s  hrojiclicd  beioro  George  If.,  lie  thus  expressed 
liimselC:  :in<l  his  icinarks  are  tlie  more  aiiuising  as 
they  were  addressed  tu  Loid  Ilcrvey,  who  uas,  at  (hat 
very  iiioniciit,  inakiiiL;  his  notes  for  tliat  l)itter  chroni- 
cle of"  his  Majesty's  reign,  whieli  has  hoen  uslicrc(l 
into  tlic  worhl  by  the  hite  Wilson  Croker — "  They  will 
all  three,"  said  King  George  1 1.,  "•  have  about  as  nuuli 
truth  in  them  as  the  Milk  et  Uiw  Niuta.  Not  but  I 
shall  like  to  read  ]»olingbroke's,  avIio  of  all  those  ras- 
cals and  knaves  that  have  been  lying  against  me  these 
ten  years  has  certainly  the  best  parts,  and  the  most 
knoAvledge.  lie  is  a  scouncb'el,  but  he  is  a  scoundrel 
of  a  hitfher  class  than  Chesterfield.  Chesterfield  is  a 
little,  tea-table  scoundrel,  that  tells  little  womanish  lies 
to  make  ([uarrels  in  families :  and  tries  to  make  women 
lose  their  reputations,  and  make  tlieir  husbands  l>eat 
them,  -without  any  object  but  to  give  himself  ail's;  as 
if  anybody  could  believe  a  woman  could  like  a  dwarf 
baboon." 

Lord  Ilervcy  gave  a  preference  to  I>oling1)rokc ; 
stating  as  his  reason,  that  "  though  Lord  Bolingbroke 
had  no  idea  of  wit,  his  satire  was  keener  than  any  one's. 
Lord  Chesterfield's,  on  tlie  other  hand,  would  have  a 
great  deal  of  wit  in  them  ;  but,  in  every  page  you  see 
he  intended  to  bo  Avitty  :  every  paragraph  would  be  an 
epigram.  Polish,  he  declared,  would  be  his  bane;" 
and  Lord  Ilervey  was   perfectly  right. 

Li  17;)2  Lord  Chesterfield  was  obliged  to  retire  from 
his  endjassy  on    the  plea   of  ill-health,  but  probably, 


340  LIFE  IN  THE  COUNTRY. 

from  some  political  cause.  lie  ■\vas  in  the  opposi- 
tion against  Sir  Robert  Walpole  on  the  Excise  Bill ; 
and  felt  the  displeasure  of  that  all-powerful  min- 
ister hy  being  dismissed  from  his  oilice  of  High 
Steward. 

Being  badly  received  at  court,  he  now  lived  in  the 
country  ;  sometimes  at  Buxton,  >vhere  his  father  drank 
the  waters,  Avhere  he  had  his  recreations,  Avhen  not  per- 
secuted by  two  young  brothers,  Sir  William  Stanhope 
and  John  Stanhope,  one  of  whom  performed  "  tolerably 
ill  upon  a  broken  hautboy,  and  the  other  something 
worse  upon  a  cracked  flute."  There  he  won  three 
half-crowns  from  the  curate  of  the  place,  and  a  shilling 
from  "Gaffer  Foxeley '"  at  a  cock-match.  Sometimes 
he  souglit  relaxation  in  Scar1»orough,  where  fashionable 
beaux  "danced  with  the  ])retty  ladies  all  night,"  and 
hundreds  of  Yorkshire  county  bumpkins  "played  the 
inferior  parts  ;  and,  as  it  were,  only  tumble,  whilst  the 
others  dance  upon  the  high  ropes  of  gallantry."  Scar- 
borough was  full  of  Jacobites  :  the  popular  feeling  was 
then  all  rife  against  Sir  Robert  Walpole's  excise  scheme. 
Lord  Cliesterfield  thus  wittily  satirized  that  famous 
measure : — 

"  The  people  of  this  town  are,  at  present,  in  great 
consternation  upon  a  re])ort  they  have  heard  from  Lon- 
do7),  which,  if  true,  they  think  will  ruin  them.  They 
are  informed,  that  considering  the  vast  consum])tion 
of  those  waters,  tliere  is  a,  design  laid  of  c.rcixi)!;/  tliem 
next  session  ;  and,  moreover,  that  as  bathing  in  the 


MKLUSINA,   CUL'.NTKSS  oK    \VALSiN(  illAM.      ;;  1 1 

sea  is  lu'cumc  tlio  general  practice  of  both  sexes,  ami 
as  llic  kings  of  England  liave  always  been  allowed  to 
be  masters  of  the  seas,  every  person  so  bathing  shall  be 
gauged,  and  pay  so  much  per  foot  square,  as  their  cubi- 
cal bulk  aiiKiiiiits  to." 

In  17-J-5,  Lord  Chesterfield  married  Melusina,  the 
supposed  niece,  but,  in  fact,  the  daughter  of  the  Duchess 
of  Kcndnl,  the  mistress  of  George  1.  This  Indv  Avas 
j)resumed  to  be  a  great  heiress,  from  the  dominion 
which  her  mother  had  over  the  king.  Mclusina  bail 
been  created  (for  life)  Baroness  of  Aldborough,  county 
Suflblk,  and  Countess  of  Walsingham,  county  Norfolk, 
nine  years  previous  to  her  marriage. 

Iler  i'aihcv  being  George  I.,  as  Horace  ^Valpolc 
terms  him,  ''  rather  a  ^ood  sort  of  man  than  a  shinino; 
king,"  and  her  mother  "being  no  genius,"  there  was 
probably  no  great  attraction  about  Lady  Walsingham, 
except  her  expected  dowry. 

During  her  girlhood  Mcbisina  resided  in  the  apart- 
ments at  St.  James's — opening  into  the  garden  ;  and 
here  Horace  Walpole  describes  his  seeing  George  I., 
in  the  ronms  aj)propriated  to  the  Duchess  of  Kendal, 
next  to  those  of  jNIclusina  Schulemberg,  or,  as  she  was 
then  called,  the  Countess  of  Walsingham.  The  Duchess 
(if  KCiidnl  was  then  vi-ry  '•lean  and  ill-favored." 
'•Just  before  her."  says  Horace,  ""stood  a  tall,  elderly 
man,  rather  pah',  of  an  aspect  rather  giiod-natured  than 
august  :  ill  a  daik  tie-wig,  a  jilain  coat,  Avaisleoat,  and 
breeches  of  snuil-colored  cloth,  with  stockings  of  the 


.342        CHESTERFIELD  AND  LADY   SUFFOLK. 

same  color,  and  a  blue  ribbon  over  all.  That  was 
George  I." 

The  Duchess  of  Kendal  had  been  maid  of  honor  to 
the  Electress  Sophia,  the  mother  of  George  I.  and  tlie 
daughter  of  Elizabeth  of  Bohemia.  The  duchess  was 
always  frightful ;  so  much  so  tliat  one  night  the  elect- 
ress, Avho  had  acquired  a  little  English,  said  to  Mrs. 
Howard,  afterwards  Lady  Suffolk, — glancing  at  Mad- 
emoiselle Schulemberg — "  Look  at  that  mawkin,  and 
think  of  her  being  my  son's  passion!" 

The  duchess,  however,  like  all  Hanoverians,  knew 
how  to  })rofit  by  royal  preference.  She  took  bribes : — 
she  had  a  settlement  of  i^oOOO  a  year.  But  her 
daughter  was  eventually  disappointed  of  the  expected 
bequest  from  her  father,  the  king.^ 

In  the  apartments  at  St.  James's,  Lord  Chesterfield 
for  some  time  lived,  when  he  was  not  cno-an-ed  in  office 
abroad  ;  and  there  lie  dissipated  large  sums  in  play.  It 
was  liere,  too,  tliat  Queen  Caroline,  the  wife  of  George 
II.,  detected  the  intimacy  that  existed  between  Chester- 
field and  Lady  Suffolk.  There  was  an  obscure  Avindow 
in  Queen  Caroline's  apartments,  whicli  looked  into  a 
dark  passage,  lighted  only  by  a  single  lamp  at  night. 

'  In  tiic  "Annu;il  Re<?ister,"  for  1774,  p.  'JO,  it  is  stated  tlirit  :is 
Cioorsj;e  I.  had  left  Lady  Walsiii^iiaiii  a  Ir.i^acy  wliicli  liis  succi'ssor 
did  iiiil  tliink  )in>|icr  to  drlivor,  tlic  Ivirl  of  ( 'licstciiicld  was  do- 
tLTiuiiied  to  recover  it  iiy  a  suit  in  (  iianecry,  had  not  iiis  Majesty, 
on  qncstioninc  tlie  l>ord  ( "Iianei'lh)r  on  the  sul)jeet,  and  lieint; 
answered  that  he  coidd  ^ive  no  ojiTnion  cxtra-jndit-ially,  tlionght 
proper  to  I'ullil  the  bequest. 


(IKOiKiE   II.    AM)    JUS    FATIIKKS    WILL.        oL") 

Oik-  Twelfth  Niy;ht,  Lord  Chcstcrficlil,  having'  ^v()ll  a 
liu-j^e  sum  at  cards,  deposited  it  with  Lady  SufVolk, 
think iii;j;  it  not  safe  to  carry  it  lioiue  at  night.  He 
\vas  watched,  and  his  intimacy  with  the  mistress  of 
George  IL  tliereupon  inferred.  Thencefortli  he  cnulil 
obtain  no  court  iniluence ;  and,  in  desperation,  he 
went   into  the  op])Osition. 

On  the  deatli  of  George  I.,  a  singuhir  scene,  with 
which  Lord  Chesterfield's  interests  were  connected, 
occurred  in  the  Privy  Council.  Dr.  Wake,  Arch- 
bishoj)  of  Canterbury,  produced  the  king's  will,  and 
delivered  it  to  his  successor,  expecting  that  it  Avould 
be  opened  and  read  in  the  council ;  what  was  his  con- 
sternation, wlien  his  ^Majesty,  Avithout  saying  a  word, 
put  it  into  his  pocket,  and  stalked  out  of  the  room 
Avith  real  German  imperturbability  !  Neither  the  as- 
tounded prelate  nor  the  subservient  council  ventured 
to  utter  a  Avonl.  The  Avill  was  never  more  heard  of: 
and  rumor  declared  that  it  Avas  l)nrnt.  The  contents, 
of  course,  never  transpired  ;  and  the  legacy  of  i;40,000, 
said  to  have  been  left  to  the  Duchess  of  Kendal,  Avas 
nevermore  spoken  of,  until  Lord  Chesterfield,  in  1733, 
married  the  Countess  of  Walsinghani.  In  174->,  it 
is  said,  he  claimed  the  legacy — in  right  of  his  Avife — 
l]\v  \)\ir\\vs^  of  Kendal  being  then  dead:  and  Avas 
"([iiieted""  wilh  tlJO, <)<)().  and  got,  as  Horace  Wal- 
pole  observes,  nothing    iVoni  the  iliidiess — "e.xrejit  his 

wife." 

The  only  excuse   that  Avas  urgeil  to  extenuate  this 


344  DISSOLVI^'G    VIEWS. 

act  on  the  part  of  George  II.,  was  that  his  royal  father 
had  burned  two  wills  Avhicli  had  been  made  in  his  favor. 
These  were  supposed  to  be  the  Avills  of  the  Duke  and 
Duchess  of  Zell  and  of  the  Electress  Sophia.  There 
Avas  not  even  common  honesty  in  the  House  of  Hanover 
at  that  period. 

Disappointed  in  his  wife's  fortune,  Lord  Chesterfield 
seems  to  have  cared  very  little  for  the  disappointed 
heiress.  Their  union  Avas  childless.  His  opinion  of  mar- 
riage appears  very  much  to  have  coincided  Avitli  tliut 
of  the  Avorld  of  malcontents  Avho  rush,  in  the  present 
day,  to  the  court  of  Judge  Cresswell,  Avitli  "  dissolv- 
ing views."  On  one  occasion  he  writes  thus  :  ''  I  liave 
at  last  done  the  best  office  that  can  be  done  to  most 
married  people;  that  is,  I  have  fixed  tlie  separation 
between  my  brother  and  his  Avife,  and  the  definitive 
treaty  of  peace  Avill  be  proclaimed  in  about  a  fort- 
night." 

Horace  Walpole  related  the  following  anecdote  of 
Sir  William  Stanhope  (Chesterfield's  brother)  and  liis 
lady,  Avliom  he  calls  ''  a  fond  couple."  After  their 
return  from  Paris,  Avhcn  they  arrived  at  Lord  Ches- 
terfield's house  at  Blackheath,  Sii'  William,  avIio  Imd, 
like  his  brother,  a  cutting,  polite  Avit,  that  Avas  proba- 
bly expressed  Avith  the  "nllowed  simper"  of  Tjovd 
Chesterfield,  got  out  of  the  chaise  and  said,  willi  a 
low  boAV,  "  Madame,  I  hope  i  shall  never  see  your 
face  again."  She  re])lied,  "Sir,  I  Avill  take  care  that 
vou  never  shall  ;'"  and  so  thev  parted. 


MADA.Mi-;  i»r  i:()l:ciiet.  345 

There  was  little  i)rol)iibility  of  Lord  Chesterfield's 
)iartici|ialiiiL:;  in  domestic  felicity,  ■when  ncitlier  his 
heart  ni)r  his  lUnev  was  cno;a<!;ed  in  the  union  whit  h 
lie  hail  IoiukmI.  The  lady  to  whom  he  was  really 
attached,  and  hy  whom  \iv  had  a  son,  resided  in  the 
Netherlands :  she  passed  by  the  name  of  Madame 
(111  Ihnichet,  ami  survived  Itoth  Lord  Chesterfield 
and  her  son.  A  j)ermanent  j»rovision  was  made  lor 
her,  and  a  sum  <»r  live  inindix-il  pounds  bequeathed  to 
her,  with  these  words:  "As  a  small  reparation  for  the 
injury  1  did  her."  "  Certainly,"  adds  Lord  Mahon, 
ill  his  Memoir  of  his  illustrious  ancestor,  "a  small 
one." 

For  some  time  Lord  Chcstei'field  remained  in  Enj^- 
land,  and  liis  letters  are  dated  from  Bath,  from  Tiin- 
brid_£i;e,  from  ]>lackheath.  Jle  had,  in  1726,  been 
elevated  to  the  House  of  Lords  ujion  the  death  ol'  his 
father.  In  that  assembly  his  great  eloquence  is  thus 
Will   described  by  his  biographer: — ^ 

"Lord  Chesterfield's  eloijucnce,  the  fniit  of  iiinch 

study,   was  less   characterized  by  force  and   conqiass 

than  by  elegance  ami  perspicuity,  and   especially  by 

good  taste  and  urbanity,  and  a  vein  of  delicate  irony 

which,    while    it    sometimes    inflicted    severe   strokes, 

never  passcil   (lie  limits  of  decency  and  ))Vo])riety.      It 

was   that  of  a  mai>  wlio,  in    the   union  of  wit  and  good 

sense  with   politeness,   had   not  a  competitor.      These 

'  Lord  Mahon,  now  Karl  of  StanhojH.',  if  imt  the  most  elofiuent, 
one  of  the  most  honest  historians  of  our  time. 


346  COURT  LADIES. 

qualities  were  matured  by  the  advantage  which  he 
assiduously  sought  and  obtained,  of  a  familiar  acquaint- 
ance with  almost  all  the  eminent  wits  and  writers  of  his 
time,  many  of  whom  had  been  the  ornaments  of  a  pre- 
cedin<T  a<^e  of  literature,  while  others  were  destined  to 
become  those  of  a  later  period." 

The  accession  of  George  II.,  to  whose  court  Lord 
Chesterfield  had  been  attached  for  many  years,  brought 
him  no  political  preferment.  The  court  had,  however, 
its  attractions  even  for  one  who  OAved  his  polish  to  the 
belles  of  Paris,  and  who  was  almost  always,  in  taste 
and  manners,  more  foreign  than  English.  Henrietta, 
Lady  Pomfret,  the  daughter  and  heiress  of  John  Jef- 
freys, the  son  of  Judge  Jeffreys,  Avas  at  that  time  the 
leader  of  fashion. 

Six  daughters,  one  of  th-em.  Lady  Sophia,  surpass- 
ingly lovely,  recalled  the  perfections  of  that  ancestress, 
Arabella  Fermor,  whose  charms  Pope  has  so  exquisitely 
touched  in  the  "  Rape  of  tlie  Lock."  Lady  Sophia 
became  eventually  the  wife  of  Lord  Carteret,  the  min- 
ister, whose  talents  and  the  charms  of  whose  eloquence 
constituted  him  a  sort  of  rival  to  Chesterfield.  With 
all  his  abilities.  Lord  Chesterfield  may  be  said  to  have 
failed  l)otli  as  a  courtier  and  as  a  political  character, 
as  far  as  permanent  influence  in  any  ministry  was  con- 
cerned, until  1744,  when  wliat  was  called  the  "  I'lo.nl- 
bottomed  administration  "  avms  fitiiKMl,  ^\]\^■n  he  was 
admitted  into  the  cabinet.  In  tlie  lollowing  year,  how- 
ever, lie  went,  for  the  hist  time,  to  Holland,  as  ambas- 


L()I;I)-LI1;L  TENANT  OF   TKKLAND.  347 

sador,  and  succeeded  beyond  the  expectations  <if"  his 
party  in  the  purposes  of  his  embassy,  lie  took  leave 
of"  the  States-General  just  before  the  battle  of  Fonte- 
nov,  and  hastened  to  Ireland,  Avherc  he  had  been  noni- 
inated  Lord-Lieutenant  previous  to  his  journey  to 
Holland,  lie  remained  in  that  country  only  a  year ; 
but  long  enough  to  prove  how  liberal  Avere  his  views — 
how  kindly  the  dispositions  of  his  heart. 

Only  a  few  years  before  Lord  Chesterfield's  arrival 
in  Dublin,  the  Duke  of  Shrew^sbury  had  given  as  a 
reason  for  accepting  the  vice-regency  of  that  country 
(of  wliich  King  James  I.  had  said,  there  was  "more 
ado"  than  with  any  of  his  dominions),  ''that  it  Avas  a 
place  Avliere  a  man  had  l)usiness  enough  to  keep  him 
from  falling  asleep,  and  not  enough  to  keep  him 
awake." 

Chesterfield,  however,  Avas  not  of  that  opinion,  lie 
did  more  in  one  year  than  the  duke  Avould  have  accom- 
j)lished  in  five.  lie  began  by  instituting  a  principle 
of  impartial  justice.  Formerly,  Protestants  had  alone 
been  emiiloyed  as  "manafjersi"  the  Lieutenant  Avas 
to  see  Avitli  Protestant  eyes,  to  hear  Avith  Protestant 
ears. 

"  I  have  determined  to  proscribe  no  set  of  persons 
Avhatever,"  says  Chesterfield,  '"and  deteniiined  Id  be 
goveiTieil  by  none.  Had  the  Papists  made  any  attempt 
to  |tut  themselves  above  tlic  law,  I  should  have  taken 
good  care  to  have  ((tu-lled  tlieni  again.  It  was  said  my 
lenity  to  the  Papists  had  wrought  nu  alteration  either 


348        A   WISE  AND  JUST  ADMINISTRATION. 

in  tlicir  religious  or  their  political  sentiments.  I  did 
not  expect  that  it  Avould  :  but  surely  that  was  no  reason 
for  cruelty  towards  them." 

Often  by  a  timely  jest  Chesterfield  conveyed  a  hint, 
or  even  shrouded  a  reproof.  One  of  tlie  ultra-zealous 
informed  him  that  his  coachman  Avas  a  Papist,  and 
Avent  every  Sunday  to  nuiss.  "  Does  he  indeed  ?  I 
"will  take  care  he  never  drives  me  there,"  was  Chestcr- 
field's  cool  reply. 

It  was  at  this  critical  period,  when  the  Hanoverian 
dynasty  was  shaken  almost  to  its  downfall  by  the  in- 
surrection in  Scotland  of  1745,  that  Ireland  was  im- 
perilled :  "With  a  weak  or  wavering,  or  a  fierce  and 
headli^ng  Lord-Lieutenant — witli  a  (irafton  or  a  Straf- 
fi)rd,"  remarks  Loi'd  Mahon,  "there  would  soon  have 
been  a  simultaneous  rising  in  the  Emerald  Isle."  But 
Cliesterfield's  energy,  his  lenity,  his  wise  and  just 
administration,  saved  the  Irish  from  l»eing  excited 
into  relx'llion  l)y  the  emissaries  (if  Charles  Edward, 
or  slaughtered,  when  con([uered,  by  tlie  "  Butcher," 
and  his  ti^er-like  dra<2;ons.  When  all  was  over,  and 
that  sad  page  of  history  in  which  the  deaths  of  so 
many  faithful  adlierents  of  the  exiled  fimily  are  ro- 
corde*!,  had  1»eeii  lield  ui)  to  the  iraze  of  lileedinsi  Calo- 
donia,  (Jhesterfield  ix-commeiidcd  mild  measures,  and 
advised  the  (^stal)lishment  (if  scliouls  in  tbe  Highlands; 
Imt  tbe  age  was  too  narrow-minded  t(»  adopt  his  views. 
Jn  .January,  1748,  Chesterfield  retired  from  public 
life.      "Could  I  do  anv   good,"   be  vrote  to  a  friend, 


KEFOKMATIOX   OF  TIFK  CALKNDAR.  340 

"T  -wniild  sMci'ifico  soino  more  (|iiict  to  it;  Iml  cdfi- 
viiicftl  as  1  am  that  I  can  '!<)  ikuic.  I  will  iiidiil^jc  my 
case,  and  prcscivc  my  cliaraclci-.  1  have  gone  t]irou;;h 
pleasures  while  my  eonstitutioii  and  my  spirits  -would 
allow  mo.  l)usiness  succeeded  them  ;  and  I  have  now 
f^one  thr(ju«^h  every  part  of  it  without  liking  it  at  all 
the  better  for  heini;  ac(|uainted  with  it.  Like  many 
Other  things,  it  is  most  admired  l)y  llujse  who  know  it 
least.  ...  1  have  been  Ijehind  the  scenes  both  of 
pleasure  and  l)usiness;  I  have  seen  all  the  coarse 
pulleys  and  dirty  ropes  wliich  cxhi)>it  and  move  all 
the  gaudy  machines ;  and  I  have  seen  and  smelt  the 
tallow  candles  which  illuminate  the  whole  decoration, 
to  the  astonishment  and  admiration  of  tlie  ignorant 
multitude.  .  .  .  My  horse,  my  l)ooks,  and  my  fiicmls 
will   (lividc  my  time  ])retty  e(|ually." 

lie  still  interested  himself  in  Avhat  was  useful;  and 
carried  a  15 ill  in  the  House  of  Lords  tor  the  Reforma- 
tion of  the  ("alcndar,  in  17")1.  It  seems  a  small 
matter  for  so  grc:it  a  mind  as  his  to  accomplish,  but  it 
was  an  achievement  of  ijifinite  difliculty.  IMany 
statesmen  had  shrunk  from  the  undertaking ;  and  even 
Chesterfield  found  it  essential  to  ])repare  the  public,  by 
writing  in  some  periodical  papers  on  the  subject. 
Nevertheless  the  vulgar  outcry  was  vehement :  "  Give 
us  back  the  eleven  days  we  have  been  robbed  of  I" 
cried  the  mol)  at  a  general  election.  Wlien  TJradley 
was  dviui:,  the  connnon  ix'ople  as<  ril)cd  his  sufferings 
to    a   judgment    for    the    part   he    had    taken   in  that 


350  IN  MIDDLE  LIFE. 

"impious  transaction,"  the  alteration  of  the  calendar. 
But  they  were  not  less  homes  in  tlieir  notions  than  the 
Duke  of  Newcastle,  then  prime  minister.  Upon  Lord 
Chesterfield  giving  him  notice  of  his  Bill,  that  bus- 
tling premier,  who  had  been  in  a  hurry  fn-  forty  years, 
who  never  "walked  but  always  ran,"  greatly  alarmed, 
begged  Chesterfield  not  to  stir  matters  that  had  been 
long  quiet ;  adding,  that  he  did  not  like  "  new-fangled 
things."  lie  was,  as  we  have  seen,  overruled,  and 
henceforth  the  New  Style  was  adopted ;  and  no  special 
calamity  has  fiillen  on  the  nation,  as  was  expected,  in 
consequence.  Nevertheless,  after  Chesterfield  had 
made  his  speech  in  the  House  of  Lords,  and  Avhen 
every  one  had  complimented  him  on  the  clearness  of 
his  explanation — "  God  knows,"  he  wrote  to  his  son, 
"  I  had  not  even  attempted  to  explain  the  Bill  to 
them  ;  I  might  as  soon  have  talked  Celtic  or  Sclavonic 
to  them  as  astronomy.  They  would  have  understood 
it  full  as  well."  So  much  for  the  "Lords"  in  those 
days  ! 

After  \\\^  furore  ^ov  politics  had  subsided,  Chester- 
field returned  to  his  ancient  passion  for  play.  We 
must  linger  a  little  over  the  still  brilliant  period  of 
his  middle  life,  whilst  his  hearing  Avas  spared ;  whilst 
his  wit  remained,  and  the  charming  manners  on  which 
he  had  formed  a  science,  continued ;  and  before  we  see 
him  in  the  mournful  decline  of  a  life  wholly  given  to 
the  world. 


CIIKSTEIIFIET.I*   IForSE.  351 

lie  had  now  cstaMislicd  liiiiisclf  in  ClicstcrficM 
House.  Hitherto  liis  pro^^eiiitors  luul  Ix-eii  satisfied  witli 
Bloomslmry  S(inare,  in  Avliich  the  T.ovd  Chesteiiiehl 
mentioned  by  Do  Grainniont  resided;  but  tlic  accom- 
plished Chesterfichl  chose  a  site  near  Aiulley  Street, 
Avliicli  had  l)ecn  Ituilt  on  Avhat  Avas  called  Mr.  Aud- 
ley's  hind,  lying  between  Great  Brook  Field  and  the 
"  Shoulder  of  ^Mutton  Field."  And  near  ihis  locality 
■with  the  elegant  name,  Chesterfield  chose  his  spot,  for 
■which  he  had  to  ■svrangle  and  fight  with  the  Dean  and 
Chapter  of  Westminster,  who  asked  an  exorbitant  sum 
for  the  ground.  Isaac  AVare,  the  editor  of  "  Palladio," 
was  the  architect  to  whom  the  erection  of  this  han.l- 
some  residence  was  intrusted.  IlappUy  it  is  still 
untouched  by  any  renovativfi  hand.  Chesterfield's 
favorite  apartments,  looking  on  the  most  spacious 
private  garden  in  London,  are  just  as  they  ■were  in 
his  time ;  one  especially,  Avhich  he  termed  the  "  finest 
room  in  London,"  was  furnished  and  decorated  by 
him.  "  The  walls,"  says  a  writer  in  the  "  Quarterly 
Review,"  "are  covered  halfway  up  with  rich  and 
classical  stores  of  literature ;  above  the  cases  are  in 
close  series  the  portraits  of  eminent  authors,  French 
and  English,  -with  most  of  whom  he  had  conversed ; 
over  these,  and  immediately  under  the  massive  cornice, 
extend  all  round  in  foot-long  capitals  the  Iloratian 
lines : — 

"Nunc,  vctcnmi.  lihris.  Xunc.  somno.  ct.  inertibus.  Iloris. 
Lucon.  solictt'r.  jiuuiul:i.  olilivia.  vitca. 


352  EXCLUSIVENESS. 

"  On  the  mantel-pit'ces  and  cabinets  stand  busts  of 
old  orators,  interspersed  Avith  voluptuous  vases  and 
bronzes,  antique  or  Italian,  and  airy  statuettes  in 
marble  or  alabaster  of  nude  or  semi-nude  opera 
nymplis." 

What  Chesterfield  called  the  '' cannonical  pillars" 
of  the  house  were  columns  brought  from  Cannons, 
near  Edgeware,  the  seat  of  the  Duke  of  Chandos. 
The  antechamber  of  Chesterfield  House  has  been 
erroneously  stated  as  the  room  in  which  Johnson 
waited  the  great  lord's  pleasure.  That  state  of  en- 
durance was  probably  passed  by  "Old  Samuel"  in 
Bloomsbury. 

In  this  stately  abode — one  of  the  few,  the  very  fcAV, 
that  seem  to  hold  noblesse  apart  in  our  levelling  me- 
tropolis— Chesterfied  held  his  assemblies  of  all  that 
London,  or  indeed  England,  Paris,  the  Hague,  or 
Vienna,  could  furnish  of  what  was  polite  and  charm- 
ing. Those  were  days  when  the  stream  of  society  did 
not,  as  noAv,  flow  freely,  mingling  with  the  grace  of 
aristocracy  the  acquirements  of  hard-working  profes- 
sors ;  there  was  then  a  strong  line  of  demarcation ;  it 
had  not  been  broken  down  in  the  same  way  as  now, 
when  people  of  rank  and  Avealth  live  in  rows,  instead 
of  inluibiting  hotels  set  apart.  Paris  has  sustained  a 
similar  revolution,  since  her  gardens  Avere  built  over, 
and  their  green  shades,  delicious  in  the  centre  of  that 
hot  city,  are  seen  no  nu)re.  In  tlie  very  Fau1)()urg 
St.   Germain,   the  grand   old    hotels    are    rapidly  dis- 


CIIESTKi;i-li:Li)-.S  NEGLECT  OF  .lolIXSOX.    nr).'"5 

appearing,  ami  with  tlicm  soiiietliiiig  of  the  exclusive- 
ness  of  the  higher  orders.  Lord  Chestcrfiehl,  how- 
ever, triunipliaiitly  pointing  to  the  fruits  of  his  taste 
and  distribution  of  his  wealtli,  witnessed,  in  his  library 
at  Chesterfield  House,  the  events  which  time  produced. 
He  heanl  of  the  death  of  Sarah,  Duchess  of  Marl- 
borough, and  oi'  her  bequest  to  him  of  twenty  thou- 
sand j)ounds,  and  her  best  and  largest  brilli.iiit  dia- 
mond ring,  "out  of  the  great  regard  she  had  for  his 
merit,  and  the  infinite  obligations  she  had  received 
from  him."  lie  witnessed  the  change  of  society  and 
of  politics  which  occurred  when  (leorge  II.  expired, 
and  the  Earl  of  Bute,  calling  himself  a  descendant 
of  tlie  house  of  Stuart,  "  and  humble  enoujih  to  bo 
proud  of  it,"  having  quitted  the  isle  of  Bute,  wliicli 
Lord  Chesterfield  calls  "  but  a  little  south  of  Nova 
Zembla,"  took  possession,  not  only  of  the  affections, 
but  even  of  the  senses  of  the  voun2;  kino;,  George  III., 
who,  assisted  by  the  widowed  Princess  of  Wales  (sup- 
posed to  1)0  attached  to  Lord  Bute),  was  "  lugged  out 
of  the  seraglio,"  and   "placed  upon  the  throne." 

Chesterfield  lived  to  have  the  honor  of  having  the 
plan  of  "Johnson's  Dictionary"  inscribed  to  him,  and 
the  dishonor  of  neglecting  the  great  author.  Johnson, 
indeed,  denicil  the  truth  of  the  storv  Avhich  gained 
general  belief,  in  which  it  Avas  asserted  that  he  had 
taken  a  disgust  at  being  kept  waiting  in  the  earl's 
antechaml)er,  (he  reason  being  assigned  that  his  lord- 
ship "had  company  with  him  ;"  when  at  last  the  door 
Vol.  I.— 2;J 


354     EECOMMEXDING  "  JOHNSON'S  DICTIONARY." 

opened,  and  forth  came  Colley  Gibber.  Then  Johnson 
— so  report  said — indignant,  not  only  for  having  been 
kept  Avaiting  but  also  for  ivlioin,  went  away,  it  was 
affirmed,  in  disgust ;  but  this  was  solemnly  denied 
by  the  doctor,  who  assured  Boswell  that  his  wrath 
proceeded  from  continual  neglect  on  the  part  of 
Chesterfield. 

Whilst  the  Dictionary  was  in  progress,  Chesterfield 
seemed  to  forget  the  existence  of  him  whom,  together 
with  the  other  literary  men,  he  affected  to  patronize. 

He  once  sent  him  ten  pounds,  after  which  he  forgot 
Johnson's  address,  and  said  "  the  great  author  had 
changed  his  lodgings."  People  who  really  Avish  to 
benefit  others  can  always  discover  where  they  lodge. 
The  days  of  patronage  were  then  expiring,  but  they 
had  not  quite  ceased,  and  a  dedication  was  always  to 
be  in  some  way  paid  for. 

AVhen  the  publication  of  the  Dictionary  drew  near, 
Lord  Chesterfield  flattered  himself  that,  in  spite  of  all 
his  neglect,  the  great  compliment  of  having  so  vast  an 
undertaking  dedicated  to  him  would  still  be  paid,  and 
wrote  some  papers  in  the  "  World,"  recommending  the 
work,  more  especially  referring  to  the  "plan,"  and 
terming  Johnson  the  "dictator,"  in  respect  to  lan- 
guage: "I  will  not  only  o])ey  him,"  he  said,  "as 
my  dictator,  like  an  old  Honiaii,  but  like  a  modern 
Roman,  will  implicitly  believe  in  him  as  my  pope." 

Johnson,  however,  was  not  to  be  propitiated  by 
those  "  honeved  words."      ITe  wrote  a   letter  couched 


"OLD  SAMUEL"  TO  CIIESTEKFIELD.  355 

in  what  he  called  "civil  terms,"  to  Chesterfield,  from 
Avliicli   we  extract  the  following  passages: 

"  When,  upon  some  slight  encouragement,  I  first 
visited  your  lordship,  I  was  overpowered,  like  the 
rest  of  mankind,  hy  the  enchantment  of  your  ad- 
dress; and  could  not  forbear  to  wisli  that  I  miiiht 
boast  mysoli  vainqueiir  du  vainqueur  de  la  terrc — that 
1  raifi-ht  obtain  that  re;2;ard  for  which  I  saw  the  world 
contending ;  but  I  found  my  attendance  so  little  en- 
couraged, that  neither  pride  nor  modesty  would  sufier 
me  to  continue  it.  AVhcii  1  had  once  addressed  your 
lordship  in  |)ul)lick,  1  had  exhausted  all  the  art  of 
pleasing  whicli  a  retired  and  uncourtly  scholar  can 
possess.  I  had  done  all  that  I  could ;  and  no  man 
is  well  pleased  to  have  his  all  neglected,  be  it  ever 
so  little. 

"  Seven  years,  my  lord,  have  now  past,  since  I 
waited  in  your  outAvnvd  room,  or  Avas  repu^sed  from 
your  door,  during  which  time  I  have  been  pushing 
on  my  work  t]n()ui:li  diificulties,  of  wdiich  it  is  useless 
to  com})lain,  and  have  brought  it,  at  last,  to  the  verge 
of  pubjic-ation  without  one  act  of  assistance,  one  word 
of  encourasement,  or  one  smile  of  favor:  such  treat- 
mciit  I  did  not  expect,  for  I  never  had  a  pntron 
before.  ...  Is  not  a  patron,  my  lord,  one  who  looks 
■with  unconcern  on  a  man  who  is  strufio;ling  for  life  in 
the  water,  and,  when  he  has  reached  ground,  encumbers 
him  witli  help?  The  notice  which  3'ou  have  been 
pleased  to  take  of  my  labors,  liad  it  been  early,  hail 


356  "DEFENSIVE   TKIDE." 

been  kind  ;  but  it  has  been  delayed  till  I  aui  indif- 
ferent and  cannot  enjoy  it;  till  I  am  solitary  and 
cannot  impart  it ;  till  I  am  known  and  do  not  want 
it.  I  hope  it  is  no  very  cynical  asperity  not  to  con- 
fess obligations  -where  no  benefit  has  been  received,  or 
to  be  unwilling  that  the  publick  should  consider  me  as 
owing  that  to  a  patron  which  Providence  has  enabled 
me  to  do  for  myself." 

The  conduct  of  Johnson,  on  this  occasion,  was  ap- 
proved by  most  manly  minds,  except  that  of  his  pub- 
lisher, Mr.  Robert  Dodsley  ;  Dr.  Adams,  a  friend  of 
Dodsley,  said  he  was  sorry  that  Johnson  had  written 
that  celebrated  letter  (a  very  model  of  polite  contempt). 
Dodsley  said  he  was  sorry  too,  for  he  liad  a  property  in 
the  Dictionary,  to  which  his  lordship's  patronage  might 
be  useful.  He  then  said  that  Lord  Chesterfield  had 
shown  him  the  letter.  "  I  should  have  thought,"  said 
Adams,  "  that  Lord  Chesterfield  would  have  concealed 
it."  "  Pooh  !"  cried  Dodsley,  "  do  you  think  a  letter 
from  Johnson  could  hurt  Lord  Chesterfield  ?  not  at  all, 
sir.  It  lay  on  his  table,  where  any  one  might  sec  it. 
He  read  it  to  me;  said,  '  This  man  has  great  powers,' 
pointed  out  the  severest  passages,  and  said,  '  ]u)w 
well  they  were  expressed.'  "  The  art  of  dissimula- 
tion, in  which  Chesterfield  was  perfect,  imposed  on 
Mr.  Dodsley. 

Dr.  Adams  expostulated  with  the  doctor,  and  said 
Lord  Chesterfield  declared  lie  would  part  with  the  best 
servant  lie  had,  if  he  had  known  that  lie  had  turned 


CIIESTEKFIKLI/S  REJOINDER.  357 

away  a  man  wlio  \^'a.s^^alwaj/s  welcome."  Then  Adams 
insisted  on  Lord  Chesterfield's  aflfability,  and  easiness 
of  access  to  literary  men.  But  the  sturdy  Johnson 
replied,  "  Sir,  tliat  is  not  Lord  Chesterfield;  he  is  the 
proudest  man  existiiiir."  "  I  tliink,"  Adams  rejoined, 
"I  know  one  tliat  is  prouder;  you,  by  your  own 
account,  are  the  prouder  of  tlic  two."  "  But  mine," 
Johnson  answered,  Avith  one  of  his  happy  turns,  "  was 
defensive  pride."  "This  man,"  he  afterwards  said, 
referring  to  Chesterfield,  "  I  tlionght  had  been  a 
lord  among  Avits,  but  I  find  he  is  only  a  Avit  among 
lords." 

In  revenge,  Chesterfield  in  his  Letters  depicted 
Johnson,  it  is  said,  in  the  character  of  the  "  respect- 
able Hottentot."  Amono;st  other  thino;s,  he  observed 
of  the  Hottentot,  "he  throws  his  meat  anywhere  but 
down  his  throat."  Tiiis  being  remarked  to  Johnson, 
who  was  by  no  means  pleased  at  being  immortalized  as 
the  Hottentot — "Sir,"  he  answered,  "Lord  Chester- 
field never  saw  me  eat  in  his  life." 

Such  are  tlie  leading  points  of  this  famous  and  last- 
ing controversy.  It  is  amusing  to  know  tliat  Lord 
Chesterfield  was  not  always  precise  as  to  directions  to 
his  letters.  He  once  directed  to  Lord  Pembroke,  who 
Avas  ahvays  SAvimming,  "  To  the  Earl  of  Pembroke,  in 
the  Thames,  over  against  Wliitehall."  This,  as  Horace 
AValpole  remarks,  "  Avas  sure  of  finding  him  Avithin  a 
certain  fatliom." 

Lord  Chesterfield  Avas  noAV  admitted  to  be  the  very 


358  THE  GLASS  OF  FASHION. 

"glass  of  fasliion,"  though  age,  and,  according  to  Lord 
Hervey,  a  hideous  person,  impeded  his  being  the 
"moukl  of  form,"  "  I  don't  knoAv  why,"  writes  Hor- 
ace Walpole,  in  the  dog-days,  from  Strawberry  Hill, 
"  but  people  are  always  more  anxious  about  their  hay 
than  their  corn,  or  twenty  other  things  that  cost  them 
more :  I  suppose  my  Lord  Chesterfield,  or  some  such 
dictator,  made  it  fashionable  to  care  about  one's  hay. 
Nobody  betrays  solicitude  about  getting  in  his  rents." 
"The  prince  of  wits,"  as  the  same  authority  calls  him 
— "  his  entrance  into  the  world  was  announced  by  his 
bon-mots,  and  his  closing  lips  dropped  repartees  that 
sparkled  with  his  juvenile  fire." 

No  one,  it  was  generally  allowed,  had  such  a  force 
of  table-wit  as  Lord  Chesterfield ;  but  while  the 
"  Graces  "  were  ever  his  theme,  he  indulged  himself 
Avithout  distinction  or  consideration  in  numerous  sallies. 
He  was,  therefore,  at  once  sought  and  feared ;  liked 
but  not  loved  ;  neither  sex  nor  relationship,  nor  rank, 
nor  friendship,  nor  obligation,  nor  profession,  could 
shield  his  victim  from  what  Lord  Hervey  calls,  "  those 
pointed,  glittering  weapons,  that  seemed  to  shine 
only  to  a  standcr-by,  but  cut  deep  into  those  they 
touched." 

He  cherished  "a  voracious  appetite  for  abuse;"  fell 
upon  every  one  that  came  in  his  way,  and  thus  treated 
each  one  of  his  companions  at  the  expense  of  the  other. 
To  him  Hervey,  Avho  liad  probably  often  smarted,  ap- 
plied tlic  lines  of  Boih'au — 


LOUD  scAi'ju )!:()['( ; ITS  niiKNDsinr.       359 

"Mais  c'cst  im  ]iclit   fou  <(iii  se  croit  tout  permis, 
Et  qui  pour  uii  l>nii  mot  va  perdrc  viugt  amis." 

Horace  Walpole  (a  more  lenient  judge  of  Clicster- 
ficld's  merits)  observes  tliat  "  Chesterfield  took  no  less 
pains  to  be  the  phoenix  of  fine  gentlemen,  than  Tullj 
did  to  ([iialify  himself  as  an  orator.  Both  succeeded: 
Tully  immortalized  his  name;  Chesterfield's  rei'^^n 
lasted  a  little  longer  than  tliat  of  a  fashionable 
beauty."  It  was,  perhaps,  because,  as  Dr.  Johnson 
said,  all  Lord  Chesterfield's  witty  sayings  were  puns, 
that  even  his  brilliant  wit  failed  to  please,  although  it 
amused,  ami  sui-prised  its  hearers. 

Notwithstanding   the   contemptuous   description    of 
Lord  Chesterfield's  personal  appearance  by  Lord  Iler- 
vcy,  his  portraits  represent  a  handsome,  though  hard 
countenance,  Avell-markcd  features,  and  his  figure  and 
air  appear  to  have  l)een  elegant.     With  his  command- 
ing talents,  his  wonderful  brilliancy  and  fluency  of  con- 
versation, he  Avould  perhaps  sometimes  have  been  even 
tedious,  had  it  not  been  for  his  invariable  cheerfulness. 
He  was  always,  as  Lord  Ilervey  says,  "present"  in 
his   company.     Amongst  the  few  friends   who    really 
loved  this  thorough  man  of  the  world,  was  Lord  Scar- 
borough, yet  no  two  characters  were  more  opposite. 
Lord  Scarborough  had  judgment,  without  Avit :   Ches- 
terfield wit,  and  no  judgment ;  Lord  Scarborough  had 
honesty  and  principle ;  Lord  Chesterfield  had  neither. 
Everybody   liked   the   one,  but   did   not  care   for   his 
company.     Every  one   disliked  the  other,  but  wished 


360  DEATH  OF  CHESTERFIELD'S  SON. 

for  Ills  company.  The  fact  was,  Scarborough  was 
"splendid  and  absent."  Chesterfiekl  "cheerful  and 
present : ' '  wit,  grace,  attention  to  what  is  passing,  the 
surface,  as  it  were,  of  a  highly-cultured  mind,  produced 
a  fascination  with  which  all  the  honor  and  respectabil- 
ity in  the  Court  of  George  II.  could  not  compete. 

In  the  earlier  part  of  Chesterfield's  career.  Pope, 
Bolingbroke,  Hervey,  Lady  INIary  Wortley  Montagu, 
and,  in  fact,  all  that  could  add  to  the  pleasures  of  the 
then  early  dinner-table,  illumined  Chesterfield  House 
by  their  wit  and  gayety.  Yet  in  the  midst  of  this  ex- 
citing life.  Lord  Chesterfield  found  time  to  devote  to 
the  improvement  of  his  natural  son,  Philip  Stanhope, 
a  great  portion  of  his  leisure.  His  celebrated  Letters 
to  that  son  did  not,  however,  appear  during  the  earl's 
life ;  nor  were  they  in  any  way  the  source  of  his 
popularity  as  a  wit,  which  was  due  to  his  merits  in 
that  line  alone. 

The  youth  to  A\hom  these  letters,  so  useful  and  yet 
so  objectionable,  were  addressed,  was  intended  for  a 
dii)lomatist.  lie  Avas  the  very  reverse  of  his  father  : 
learned,  sensible,  and  dry  ;  but  utterly  wanting  in  the 
graces,  and  devoid  of  eloquence.  As  an  orator,  there- 
fore, lie  failed  ;  as  a  man  of  society,  he  must  also  have 
ftiled;  iind  his  death,  in  17(38,  some  years  before  that 
of  his  father,  left  that  father  desolate,  and  disappointed. 
Philip  Stanlioj)e  had  attained  the  rank  of  envoy  to 
Dresden,   v.hcre  be  expired. 

Durinir  the  five  years  in  which  Chesterfield  dra2;<2;ed 


CIIESTEKFIELD  GROWING   OLD.  ^01 

out  a  iiKMii'uriil  life  after  tliis  event,  lie  made  tlic  pain- 
ful discovery  that  his  son  liad  married  without  confidin;^ 
that  step  to  the  father  to  whom  he  owed  so  much.  This 
must  have  been  almost  as  trying  as  the  awkward,  un- 
graceful deportment  of  him  wliom  he  mourned.  The 
AvorM  now  left  Chesterfield  ere  he  had  left  the  world. 
lie  ami  his  contemporary  Lord  Tyrawley  were  now 
old  and  iiifinn.  ''  Tlio  fact  is,"  Chesterfield  wittily 
said,  "  Tyrawley  and  1  have  been  dead  these  two 
years,  but  wc  don't  choose  to  have  it  known." 

"The  Bath,"  he  wrote  to  his  friend  Dayrolles,  "  did 
me  more  good  than  I  thought  anything  could  do  me ; 
but  all  that  good  does  not  amount  to  what  builders 
call  half-repairs,  and  only  keeps  up  the  shattered  fabric 
a  little  longer  than  it  would  have  stood  without  them  ; 
but,  take  my  word  for  it,  it  will  stand  but  a  very  little 
while  longer.  1  am  now  in  my  grand  climacteric,  and 
shall  not  complete  it.  Fontenelle's  last  words  at  a  hun- 
dred and  three  were,  Je  souffre  d'etre  :  deaf  and  in- 
firm as  T  am,  T  can  with  truth  say  the  same  thing  at 
sixty-three.  In  my  mind  it  is  only  the  strength  of 
our  passions,  and  tlio  weakness  of  our  reason,  that 
makes  us  so  fond  of  life  ;  but  wlien  the  former  sul)- 
side  and  give  way  to  the  latter,  we  grow  weary  of 
being,  and  willing  to  Avithdraw.  I  do  not  recommend 
this  train  of  serious  reflections  to  you,  nor  ought  j^ou 
to  adopt  them.  .  .  .  You  have  children  to  educate  and 
pro\ide  for,  you  have  all  your  senses,  and  can  enjoy  all 
the  comforts  Itoth  of  domestic  and  social  life.     I  am  in 


3G2  HIS  INTEREST  IN  HIS  GEANDSON. 

every  sense  isole,  and  have  wound  up  all  my  bottoms ; 
I  may  now  walk  off  quietly,  without  missing  nor  being 
missed." 

The  kindness  of  his  nature,  corrupted  as  it  was  by 
a  life  wholly  worldly,  and  but  little  illumined  in 
its  course  by  religion,  shone  now  in  his  care  of  his 
two  grandsons,  the  offspring  of  his  lost  son,  and  of 
their  mother,  Eugenia  Stanhope.  To  her  he  thus 
wrote : — 

"  The  last  time  I  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you,  I 
was  so  taken  up  in  playing  with  the  boys,  that  I  forgot 
their  more  important  affairs.  How  soon  would  you 
have  them  placed  at  school  ?  When  I  know  your 
pleasure  as  to  that,  I  will  send  to  Monsieur  Perny, 
to  prepare  everything  for  their  reception.  In  the 
mean  time,  I  beg  that  you  will  equip  them  thoroughly 
with  clothes,  linen,  etc.,  all  good,  but  plain ;  and  give 
me  the  amount,  which  I  will  pay ;  for  I  do  not  intend, 
from  tliis  time  forwards,  the  two  boys  should  cost  you 
one  shilling." 

He  lived,  latterly,  much  at  Blackheath,  in  the  house 
which,  being  built  on  Crown  land,  has  finally  become 
the  Ranger's  lodge ;  but  whicli  still  sometimes  goes  by 
the  name  of  Chesterfield  House.  Here  he  spent  large 
sums,  especially  on  pictures,  and  cultivated  Cantelupc 
melons ;  and  here,  as  he  grew  older,  and  became  per- 
manently afflicted  with  deafness,  his  chief  companion 
was  a  useful  friend,  Solomon  Dayrollos — one  of  those 
indebted  hangers-on  whom  it  was  an  almost  invariable 


"1   MUST  GU   AND   KEIIKARSE  MY   FUNERAL."     303 

custom  to  find,  at  that  period,  in  great  bouses — and 
perhaps  too  frc({uently  in  our  own  day. 

Dayrolles,  who  was  eniph)yed  in  tlie  embassy  under 
Lord  Sandwich  at  the  Hague,  bad  always,  to  borrow 
Horace  Walpole's  ill-natured  expression,  "  been  a  k-il- 
captain  to  the  Dukes  of  Richmond  and  Grafton,  used 
to  be  sent  to  auctions  for  them,  and  to  walk  in  the 
parks  witli  tlidi-  daughters,  and  once  went  dry-nurse 
in  Ilollaiul  with  them.  He  has  belonged,  too,  a  good 
deal  to  my  Lord  Chesterfield,  to  whom  I  believe  he 
owes  this  new  honor,  '  that  of  being  minister  at  the 
Hajirue,'  as  he  had  before  made  him  black-rod  in 
Ireland,  and  gave  the  ingenious  reason  that  he  liad 
a  black  face."  But  the  great  "dictator"  in  the 
empire  of  ]»nliteness  was  now  in  a  slow  but  sure 
decline.  Not  long  before  his  death  he  Avas  visited 
by  Monsieur  Suard,  a  French  gentleman  who  was 
anxious  to  see  "  Vliommc  le  jjIus  aimable,  le  plus  poli 
et  le  plus  spirit  uel  des  trois  royaumes"  but  who  found 
him  fearfully  altered  ;  morose  from  his  deafness,  yet 
still  anxious  to  please.  "  It  is  very  sad,"  he  said, 
with  his  usual  politeness,  "to  be  deaf,  when  one  would 
so  much  enjoy  listening.  I  am  not,"  he  added,  "so 
philosophic  as  my  friend  the  President  de  Montes- 
quieu, wlio  says,  '  I  know  how  to  be  blind,  but  I  do 
not  yet  know  how  to  be  deaf.'"  "We  shortened 
our  visit,"  says  M.  Suard,  "lest  wo  should  fatigue 
the  earl."  "  I  do  not  detain  you,"  said  Chesterfield, 
"for  I  must  go   and  rehearse  my  funeral."     It  was 


3G4  CHESTERFIELD\S  WILL. 

tlius  that  lie  styled  liis  daily  drive  througli  the  streets 
of  London. 

Lord  Chesterfield's  wonderful  memory  continued  till 
his  latest  hour.  As  he  lay,  gasping  in  the  last  agonies 
of  extreme  debility,  his  friend,  Mr.  Dayrolles,  called 
in  to  see  him  half  an  hour  before  he  expired.  The 
politeness  "which  had  become  part  of  his  very  nature 
did  not  desert  the  dying  earl.  He  managed  to  say,  in 
a  low  voice,  to  his  valet,  "  Give  Davrolles  a  chair." 
This  little  trait  greatly  struck  the  famous  Dr.  Warren, 
Avho  was  at  the  bedside  of  this  brilliant  and  wonderful 
man.  He  died  on  the  24th  of  jNLirch,  1773,  in  the 
79th  year  of  his  age. 

The  preamble  to  a  codicil  (Feb.  11,  1773)  contains 
the  following  striking  sentences,  written  when  the  in- 
tellect was  impressed  with  the  solemnity  of  that  solemn 
change  which  comes  alike  to  the  unreflecting  and  to 
the  heartstricken,   holy  believer : — 

"I  most  humbly  recommend  my  soul  to  the  extensive  mercy  of 
that  Eternal,  Supreme,  Intelligent  Being  who  gave  it  me;  most 
earnestly  at  the  same  time  deprecating  his  justice.  Satiated  with 
the  pompous  follies  of  this  life,  of  which  I  have  had  an  uncommon 
share,  I  would  have  no  iiosthumous  ones  disjilayed  at  my  funeral, 
and  therefore  desire  to  he  buried  in  the  next  burying-place  to  the 
place  where  I  shall  die,  and  limit  the  whole  expense  of  my  funeral 
to  £100." 

His  body  was  interred,  according  to  his  wish,  in  the 
vault  of  the  chapel  in  South  Andley  Street,  but  it  was 
afterwards  removeil  to  tlie  family  burial-place  in  Shcl- 
ford  Church,  Nottingliamshire. 


CIIES'rKKFIEJJ)S   WILL.  P.Go 

III  liis  will  he  left  legacies  to  his  servants.'  "  I  con- 
sider thein,"  he  said,  "as  unfortunate  friends;  my 
C(iuals  by  nature,  and  my  inferiors  only  in  the  differ- 
ence of  our  fortunes."  There  "was  something  lofty  in 
the  mind   that  prompted  that  sentence. 

His  estates  reverted  to  a  distant  kinsman,  descended 
from  a  younger  son  of  tlic  first  earl  ;  and  it  is  remark- 
able, on  lookinj;  throunjh  the  Pecrase  of  Great  Britain, 
to  perceive  how  often  this  has  been  the  case  in  a  race 
remarkable  for  the  absence  of  virtue.  Interested  mar- 
riages, vicious  habits,  perliaps  account  for  the  fact ; 
but  retributive  justice,  thougli  it  be  presumptuous  to 
trace  its  course,  is  everywhere. 

He  had  so  great  a  horror  in  his  last  days  of  gam- 
bling, that  in  bequeathing  his  possessions  to  his  heir, 
as  he  expected,  and  godson,  Philip  Stanhope,  he  inserts 
this  clause : — 

"  In  f.-isf  my  said  .lijodson,  Philip  Stanhope,  shall  at  any  time 
hereinafter  keep,  or  be  concerned  in  keeping  of,  any  race-horses,  or 
pack  of  honnds,  or  reside  one  night  at  Newmarket,  that  infamous 
seminary  of  ini([uity  and  ill-manners,  during  the  course  of  tlie  races 
there  ;  or  shall  resort  to  the  said  races  ;  or  shall  lose,  in  any  one 
day,  at  any  game  or  bet  whatsoever,  the  sum  of  £500,  then,  in  any 
the  cases  aforesaid,  it  is  my  express  will  that  lie,  my  said  godson, 
shall  fiirfcit  and  pay,  out  of  my  estate,  the  sum  of  £oOOO  t<>  and  for 
the  use  of  tlie  Dean  and  Chapter  of  "Westminster." 

When  we  say  that  Lord  Chesterfield  was  a  man  wlio 
had  710  friend,  we  sum  up  his  character  in  those  few 
words.     Just  after  his  death  a  small  but  distinguished 
'  Tw(.)  vears'  wages  were  left  to  the  servants. 


■3G6  "A  MAN  WHO  HAD  NO  FRIENDS." 

party  of  men  dined  together  at  Topliam  Beauclerk's. 
There  was   Sir  Joshua  Reynohls ;   Sir  William  Jones, 
the  orientalist ;  Bennet  Langton  ;   Steevens  ;  Boswell ; 
Johnson.     The  conversation  turned  on  Garrick,  who, 
Johnson  said,  had  friends,  but  no  friend.     Then  Bos- 
well  asked,  "  What  is  a  friend  ?"     "  One  who  comforts 
and  supports  you,  while  others  do  not."     "  Friendship, 
you  know,  sir,  is  the  cordial  drop  to  make  the  nauseous 
draught  of  life  go  down."     Then  one  of  the  company 
mentioned  Lord  Chesterfield  as  one  who  had  no  friend ; 
and  Boswell  said :   "  Garrick  Avas  pure  gold,  but  beat 
out  to  thin  leaf.  Lord  Chesterfield  was  tinsel."     And, 
for  once,  Johnson  did  not  contradict  him.     But  not  so 
do  we  judge  Lord  Chesterfield.     lie  was  a  man  who 
acted  on  false  principles  through  life ;  and  those  prin- 
ciples gradually  undermined  everything  that  Avas  noble 
and  generous  in  character  ;  just  as  those  deep  under- 
ground currents,  noiseless  in  their  course,  work  through 
fine-grained  rock,  and  produce  a  chasm.     Everything 
with  Chesterfield  was  self:  for  self,  and  self  alone,  were 
agreeable  qualities  to  be  assumed ;   for  self,   was  the 
country  to   be   served,   because   that  country  protects 
and  serves  us:   for  self,  were  friends  to  be  sought  and 
cherished,  as  useful  auxiliaries,  or  pleasant  accessories : 
in  tlie  very  core  of  the  cankered  heart,  that  advocated 
tliis  corrupting  doctrine  of  expediency,  lay  unbeli(>f; 
tliat  woi-in  which  never  died   in   the  hearts  of  so  many 
illustrious  men  of  that  ])ei'iud — the  refi'igerator  of  the 
feeliniis. 


HIS  "LETTERS  T(J   HIS  SOX."  3G7 

One  only  gentle  and  genuine  sentiment  possessed 
Lord  Chesterfield,  and  that  was  his  love  for  his  son. 
Yet  in  this  affection  the  ■worldly  man  might  be  seen  in 
mournful  colors.  He  did  not  seek  to  render  his  son 
good ;  his  sole  desire  was  to  see  him  successful  :  every 
lesson  that  he  taught  him,  in  those  matchless  Letters 
which  have  carried  down  Chesterfield's  fame  to  us  when 
his  other  productions  have  virtually  expired,  exposes  a 
code  of  dissimulation  wliich  Philip  Stanhope,  in  his 
marriage,  turned  upon  the  father  to  whom  he  owed  so 
much  care  and  advancement.  These  Letters  are,  in 
fact,  a  complete  exposition  of  Lord  Chesterfield's  cha- 
racter and  views  of  life.  No  other  man  could  have 
written  them  :  no  otiier  man  Iiave  conceived  the  notion 
of  existence  being  one  great  effort  to  deceive,  as  well 
as  to  excel,  and  of  society  forming  one  gigantic  lie. 
It  is  true  tliey  were  addressed  to  one  who  was  to  enter 
the  maze  of  a  diplomatic  career,  and  must  be  taken, 
on  that  account,  with  some  reservation. 

They  have  justly  been  condemned  on  the  score  of 
immorality  ;  but  Ave  must  remember  that  the  age  in 
Avhich  tliey  were  written  was  one  of  lax  notions,  es- 
pecially among  men  of  rank,  who  regarded  all  women 
accessible,  either  from  indiscretion  or  inferiority  of 
rank,  as  fair  game,  and  acted  accordingly.  But  whilst 
we  agree  with  one  of  Johnson's  bitterest  sentences  as 
to  the  innnorality  of  Chesterfield's  letters,  we  disagree 
witli  his  stvlin«r  his  code  of  manners  the  manners  of  a 
dancing-master.      Chesterfield  was  in  himself  a  perfect 


368  LES  MANIEEES  KOBLES. 

instance  of  what  he  calls  les  inanieres  nobles  ;  and  this 
even  Johnson  allowed. 

"  Talking  of  Chesterfield,"  Johnson  said,  "  his  man- 
ner was  exquisitely  elegant,  and  he  had  more  know- 
ledge than  I  expected."  Boswell :  ''  Did  you  find,  sir, 
his  conversation  to  be  of  a  superior  sort?" — Johnson: 
"  Sir,  in  the  conversation  which  I  had  with  him,  I  had 
the  best  right  to  superiority,  for  it  was  upon  philology 
and  literature." 

It  was  well  remarked  how  extraordinary  a  thing  it 
w'as  that  a  man  who  loved  his  son  so  entirely  should 
do  all  he  could  to  make  him  a  rascal.  And  Foote 
even  contemplated  bringing  on  the  stage  a  father  who 
had  thus  tutored  his  son  ;  and  intended  to  shoAV  the 
son  an  honest  man  in  everything  else,  but  practising 
his  father's  maxims  upon  him,  and  cheating  him. 

"It  should  be  so  contrived,"  Johnson  remarked, 
referring  to  Foote's  plan,  "that  the  father  should  be 
the  only  sufferer  by  the  son's  villainy,  and  thus  there 
would  be  poetical  justice."  "  Take  out  the  immoral- 
ity," he  added,  on  another  occasion,  "and  the  book 
(Chesterfield's  Letters  to  his  Son)  should  be  put  into 
the  hands  of  every  young  gentleman." 

We  are  inclined  to  differ,  and  to  confess  to  a  moral 
taint  throughout  the  whole  of  the  Letters ;  and  even 
had  the  immorality  been  expunged,  the  false  motives, 
the  deej^,  invariable  advocacy  of  principles  of  ex- 
pediency, would  have  poisoned  what  otherwise  might  be 
of  eff"ectual  benefit  to  the  minor  virtues  of  jxdite  society. 


*!i\)i  Hi) lie  !rravvon. 


THE  ABBE  SCARRON. 

Tin:i;K  is  :in  Tiidiun  or  Cliiiiose  legend,  I  forgot 
wliicli,  IVoiii  wliicli  Mrs.  Shelley  may  have  taken 
her  hideous  idt'u  of  Frankenstein.  We  are  told  in 
this  allegory  that,  after  fashioning  some  thousands 
of  men  after  the  most  approved  model,  endowing 
them  Avith  all  that  is  noble,  generous,  admirable,  and 
lovable  in  man  or  Avoman,  the  eastern  Prometheus 
grew  wearv  in  his  -woi-k,  stretched  his  hand  for  the 
beer-can,  and  draining  it  too  deeply,  lapsed  presently 
into  a  state  of  what  Germans  call  "  other-ma n-ness." 
There  is  a  simpler  Anglo-Saxon  term  for  this  con- 
dition, but  I  spare  you.  The  eastern  Prometheus  went 
on  seriously  Avith  his  work,  and  still  produced  the  same 
perfect  models,  faultless  alike  in  brain  and  leg.  But 
•when  it  came  to  the  delicate  finish,  when  the  last 
touches  were  to  bo  made,  his  hand  shook  a  little, 
and  the  more  delicate  members  went  awry.  It  was 
thus  that  instead  of  the  power  of  seeing  every  color 
properly,  one  man  came  out  with  a  pair  of  optics 
wliich  turned  everything  to  green,  and  this  verdancy 
pro]»ably  transmitted  itself  to  the  intelligence.  An- 
other, to  C(mtinue  the  allegory,  wdiose  tympanum  had 
slipped  a  little  under  tlu^  unsteady  finders  of  tlic  inaii- 

VoL.  I.— 21  3C'J 


370  AN  EASTERN   ALLEGORY, 

maker,  hoard  everything  in  a  wrong  sense,  and  his  life 
was  miserable,  because,  if  you  sang  his  praises,  he 
believed  you  were  ridiculing  him,  and  if  you  heaped 
abuse  upon  him,  he  thought  you  were  telling  lies  of 
him. 

But  as  Prometheus  Orientalis  grew  more  jovial,  it 
seems  to  have  come  into  his  head  to  make  mistakes 
on  purpose.  "I'll  have  a  friend  to  laugh  with,"  quoth 
he ;  and  when  warned  by  an  attendant  Yaksha,  or 
demon,  that  men  who  laughed  one  hour  often  wept  the 
next,  he  swore  a  lusty  oath,  struck  his  thumb  heavily 
on  a  certain  bump  in  the  skull  he  was  completing,  and 
holding  up  his  little  doll,  cried,  "  Here  is  one  who  will 
laugh  at  everything  !" 

I  must  now  add  what  the  legend  neglects  to  tell. 
The  model  laugher  succeeded  well  enough  in  his  own 
reiirn,  but  he  could  not  besiet  a  larcre  family.  The 
laughers  who  never  weep,  the  real  clowns  of  life,  who 
do  not,  when  the  curtain  drops,  retire,  after  an  infini- 
tesimal allowance  of  "cordial,"  to  a  half-starved  com- 
plaining family,  with  brats  that  cling  round  their  parti- 
colored stockings,  and  cry  to  them — not  for  jokes — but 
for  bread,  these  laughers,  I  say,  are  few  and  far  between. 
You  should,  therefore,  be  doubly  grateful  to  me  for  in- 
troducing to  you  now  one  of  the  most  famous  of  them  ; 
one  who  with  all  right  and  title  to  be  lugubrious,  was 
the  merriest  man  of  his  age. 

On  Shrove  Tuesday,  in  the  year  1G38,  the  good  city 
of  Mans  was  in  a  state  of  great  excitement :  the  carni- 


WHO  (OMKS    IIKRE?  371 

v:il  was  at  its  liciulit,  iiml  cverybotlv  li;i<l  i^onc  Tiiml  lor 
one  (l;i_v  Ix'Tin'c  t iiniiiiL!;  pious  fui-  tlic  ll)llL^  <liill  lorty 
(lays  of  Lent.  'Flic  iimrkft-placc  Avas  lillcil  wllli 
maskers  in  (|ii,iiiit  costiniies,.  cacli  wilder  ami  more 
extravagant  than  the  last.  Here  weie  maiiieians  with 
lii^h  peaked  hats  covered  with  eal)alistic  signs,  here 
Eastern  sultans  of  the  m('(li;vv:il  modt'l,  witli  very  fierce 
looks  and  very  large  scimitars  :  here  Amadis  de  ( laul 
with  a  Avagging  plume  a  yard  high,  here  Pantagrucl, 
here  hai-hMiuins,  here  irii<Tuenots  ten  times  more  Ingu- 
brious  than  the  despised  sectaries  they  mocked,  here 
Cnesar  and  Pompey  in  triird<  hose  and  Roman  helmets, 
and  a  mass  of  other  notabilities  Avho  Avere  great  favor- 
ites in  that  day,  appeared. 

But  Avho  comes  here  ?  What  is  the  meaning  of  these 
roars  of  laughter  that  greet  the  last  mask  who  runs  into 
the  market-place?  Why  do  all  the  Avomen  and  children 
hurry  together,  calling  upon  one  another,  ami  shout- 
ing Avith  delight?  What  is  this  thing?  Is  it  some 
ncAV  species  of  1)ird,  thus  covered  with  feathers  and 
doAvn  ?  In  a  few  minutes  the  little  figure  is  surrounded 
by  a  croAvd  of  boys  and  Avomen,  Avho  begin  to  ])bi(dv 
him  of  his  borroAved  plumes,  Avhile  he  chatters  to  them 
like  a  magpie,  Avhistles  like  a  song-bird,  croaks  like  a 
raven,  or  in  his  natural  character  shoAvers  a  mass  of 
funny  nonsense  on  them,  till  their  laughter  makes 
their  sides  ache.  The  little  wretch  is  literally  covered 
Avith  small  feathers  from  head  to  foot,  and  even  his 
face  is  nut  to  ])q  recognized.     The  Avomen  pluck  him 


372     A   MAD  FREAK  AND  ITS  CONSEQUENCES. 

behind  and  before ;  be  dances  round  and  tries  to  evade 
their  fingers.  This  is  impossil)h' ;  lie  breaks  away, 
runs  down  the  market  pursued  by  a  shouting  crowd,  is 
again  surrounded,  and  again  subjected  to  a  plucking 
process.  The  bird  must  be  stripped  ;  he  must  be  dis- 
covered. Little  by  little  his  back  is  bared,  and  little 
])y  little  is  seen  a  black  jerkin,  black  stockings,  and, 
wonder  upon  wonder !  the  bands  of  a  canon.  Now 
they  have  cleared  his  face  of  its  plumage,  and  a  cry 
of  disgust  and  shame  hails  the  disclosure.  Yes,  this 
curious  masker  is  no  other  than  a  reverend  abbe,  a 
young  canon  of  the  cathedral  of  Mans  !  "  This  is  too 
much — it  is  scandalous — it  is  diso;raceful.  The  church 
must  be  respected,  the  sacred  order  must  not  descend 
to  such  fi'ivolities."  The  people,  lately  laughing,  are 
now  furious  at  the  shameless  abbe,  and  not  his  liveliest 
wit  can  save  him  ;  they  threaten  and  cry  shame  on 
liim,  and  in  terror  of  his  life,  he  beats  his  way  through 
the  crowd,  and  takes  to  his  heels.  The  mob  follows, 
hootin2;  and  sava2;e.  The  little  man  is  nimble ;  those 
well-shaped  legs — qui  ont  si  hien  danse — stand  him  in 
good  stead.  Down  the  streets,  and  out  of  the  town 
go  hare  and  hounds.  The  pursuers  gain  on  him — a 
bridge,  a  stream  filled  with  tall  reeds  and  delightfully 
miry,  are  all  the  hope  of  refuge  he  sees  before  him. 
lie  leaps  gallantly  from  ihe  bridge  in  among  the  osiers, 
and  has  the  joy  of  listening  to  the  disappointed  curses 
of  the  mob  when,  reaching  tlu^  stream,  their  quarry  is 
nowhere  to  be  secji.     The  reeds  conceal  him,  and  there 


SCAIIKUN'S  i;.\i;i.v  vkaus.  373 

lie  linir('i"S  lill  iii''litfall,  wlicti  lie  (•.■iii  issue  fVoiii  liis 
liirkiii<f-[)lac(.',   ami  escape  tVoiu   the   town. 

SiK-Ii  was  the  nuid  freak  which  deprived  the  Ahhe 
Searrun  ot"  tlie  use  of  his  liiuhs  fur  life.  His  healtli 
AVJ18  alreadv  niined  when  lie  iudulgeil  this  caprice;  the 
damp  (if  the  river  ljrou<iht  on  a  violent  attack,  ■which 
closed  with  palsy,  and  the  gay  young  ahbe  had  to  jiay 
dearly  for  the  pleasure  of  astonishing  the  citizens  of 
jNIans.  The  disguise  was  easily  accounted  for — he  had 
smeared  himself  with  honey,  ripped  open  a  feather-bed 
and  rolled  himself  in   it. 

This  little  incident  gives  a  good  idea  of  what  Scar- 
ron  was  in  his  younger  days — ready  at  any  time  for 
any  wild  caprice. 

Paul  Scarron  was  the  son  of  a  Conseiller  du  Parle- 
ment  of  good  family,  resident  in  I'aris.  He  was  horn 
in  IGIO,  and  his  early  days  Avould  have  been  wretched 
enough,  if  his  elastic  spirits  had  allowed  him  to  give 
wav  to  misery.  His  father  was  a  ^ood-natured,  weak- 
minded  man,  who  on  the  death  of  his  first  Avife' married 
a  second,  who,  as  one  hen  Avill  peck  at  another's  chicks, 
would  not,  as  a  step-mother,  leave  the  little  Paul  in 
peace.  She  was  continually  putting  her  own  children 
forward,  and  ill-treating  the  late  "anointed"  son. 
The  father  'Mve  in  too  readily,  and  young  Paul  was 
idad  enou'di  io  be  set  free  from  his  nnhai))>v  home. 
There  uiav  be  some  excuse  in  this  for  the  licentious 
liviu"'  to  which  he  now  urave  hiinscir  iiii.  He  was  heir 
to  a  decent  fortune,  and  of  course  thought  himself  jus- 


374  MAKING   AN   ABBE  OF  IIIM. 

tified  in  spending  it  beforehand.  Then,  in  spite  of 
his  quaint  little  figure,  ho  had  something  attractive 
about  him,  for  his  merry  face  was  good-looking,  if  not 
positively  handsome.  If  we  add  to  this,  spirits  as 
buoyant  as  an  Irishman's — a  mind  that  not  only  saw 
the  ridiculous  wherever  it  existed,  but  could  turn  the 
most  solemn  and  awful  themes  to  laughter,  a  vast  deal 
of  good-nature,  and  not  a  little  assurance — we  can  un- 
derstand that  the  young  Scarron  was  a  favorite  with 
both  men  and  women,  and  among  the  reckless  pleasure- 
seekers  of  the  day  soon  became  one  of  the  Avildest. 
In  short,  he  was  a  fast  young  Parisian,  with  as  little 
care  for  morality  or  religion  as  any  youth  who  saun- 
ters on  the  Boulevards  of  the  French  ca})ital  to  this 
day. 

But  his  step-motlier  w^as  not  content  with  getting  rid 
of  young  Paul,  but  had  her  eye  also  on  his  fortune,  and 
therefore  easily  persuaded  her  husband  that  the  service 
of  the  church  Avas  precisely  the  career  for  which  the 
young  reprobate  was  fitted.  There  was  an  uncle  who 
was  Bishop  of  Grenoble,  and  a  canonry  could  easily  be 
got  for  him.  The  fixst  youth  Avas  compelled  to  give  in 
to  this  arrangement,  but  declined  to  take  full  orders; 
so  tliat  while  drawing  the  revenue  of  his  stall,  he  had 
notliing  to  do  with  the  duties  of  bis  calling.  'J'lien, 
toi>,  it  was  rather  a,  fasliionablc  tiling  ti>  be  an  abbe, 
especially  a  gay  one.  4'lie  position  placed  you  on  a 
level  with  peo})le  of  all  raidvs.  Half  tlic  courl  was 
composed  of  hn-e-making  ecclesiastics,  and  llie  soiitfOie 


'I'm:  .MAYi'Aii:  of  pakis.  :j/o 

"vvas  a  kiml  of  diploiiin  fni-  wit  and  wickedness.  Viewed 
in  this  li^ht,  the  ehureh  was  as  jovial  a  profession  as 
the  army,  and  tlie  young  Scarron  went  to  the  full 
extent  of  the  letter  allowed  to  the  black  gown.  It 
was  oidy  such  stupid  superstitious  louts  as  those  of 
Mans,  who  did  not  know  anything  of  the  Avays  of  Paris 
life,  who  could  object  to  such  little  freaks  as  he  loved 
to  indult!;e  in. 

The  merry  little  abbd  was  soon  the  delight  of  the 
Marais.  This  distinct  and  anti<|uated  quarter  of  Paris 
was  then  the  May  fair  of  that  capital.  Here  lived  in 
ease,  and  contempt  of  the  bourgeoisie,  the  great,  the 
gay,  the  courtier,  and  the  wit.  Here  ]Marion  de  Lorme 
received  old  cardinals  and  young  abbds ;  here  were 
the  salons  of  j\Iadame  de  Martel,  of  the  Comtcsse  de 
la  Suze,  who  changed  her  creed  in  order  to  avoid  scc- 
in«-  her  husband  in  this  world  or  the  next,  and  the 
famous — or  infamous — Ninon  de  TEnclos  ;  and  at  these 
houses  vouni;  Scarron  met  the  courtly  Saint-Evremond, 
tlie  witty  Sarrazin,  an<l  the  learned  but  arrogant  \o\- 
ture.  Here  he  read  his  skits  and  parodies,  here  tra- 
vestied A"ir;ril.  made  epigrams  on  Richelieu,  ami 
poureil  out  his  indelicate  liut  always  laughable  wit- 
ticisms. Put  his  indulgences  were  not  confined  to 
iiiti-i'jiK'S ;  he  also  diaiik  deep,  and  there  was  not  a 
pleasiii-.'  witliin  liis  reach  which  he  ever  tliought  of 
deiiving  himself.  lie  laiiLrhed  at  religion.  llioMght 
iiinnilitva  nuisance,  and  resolved  to  be  nien-y  at  all 
costs. 


376  A   HELPLESS  CRIPPLR 

The  little  account  was  brought  in  at  last.     At  the 
age  of  five-and-twcnty  his  constitution  was  broken  up. 
Gout  and  rheumatism  assailed  him  alternately  or  in 
leash.     He  began  to  feel  the  annoyance  of  the  con- 
straint they  occasioned  ;  he  regretted  those  legs  which 
had  figured  so  well  in  a  ronde  or  a  minuet,  and  those 
hands  which  had  played  the  lute  to  dames  more  fair 
than  modest ;  and  to  add  to  this,  the  pain  he  suffered 
was  not  slight.      lie  sought  relief  in  gay  society,  and 
was    cheerful    in    s])ite    of  his    sufferino;s.     At  leu'^th 
came  the  Shrove  Tuesday  and  the  feathers ;  and  the 
consequences  were  terrible.     lie  was  soon  a  prey  to 
doctors,   whom  he  believed  in  no  more  tlian    in    the 
churcli   of  which   he  was  so  great  a  lio-ht.      His  leo-s 
were  no  longer  his  own,  so  he  was  obliged  to  borrow 
those  of  a  chair.     He  Avas  soon  tucked  down  into  a 
species  of  dumb-waiter  on  casters,  in  wliich   he  could 
be  rolled  about  in  a  party.      In  front  of  this  chair  was 
fastened  a  desk,  on  which  he  wrote;  for  too  wise  to  be 
overcome  by  his  agony,  he  drove  it  away  by  cultivat- 
ing his  imagination,  and  in  this  way  some  of  the  most 
fantastic  productions  in   French   literature  were  com- 
posed by  this  quaint  little  a1»be. 

Nor  was  sickness  his  only  trial  now.  Old  Scarron 
was  a  citizen,  and  had,  what  was  then  criminal,  sun- 
dry ideas  of  the  libei-fy  of  the  nation.  He  saw  Avith 
disgust  the  tyranny  of  lliehelieu,  and  joined  a  ])arty 
in  the  ParlianuMit  to  op])ose  tlie  cardinal's  measui-es. 
He  even   had  the  courage  to  speak  opcidy  against  one 


scAi:i:()Ns  i,ami;nt  'lo  pklllsson.        o77 

of  the  court  edicts  :  mid  tlic  pitiless  cardiiuil,  vlio  never 
overlooked  any  ofleiice,  bunislied  liiin  to  Touraiiie,  and 
naturally  extended  his  animosity  to  the  conseiller's  son. 
This  1i:i])])('ii(m1  at  a  moment  at  \viru-li  the  cripple  be- 
lieved iiiniself  to  1k'  on  the  road  to  favor.  lie  had 
already  won  that  of  Madame  de  Ilautefort,  on  A\hom 
Tiduis  XIII.  had  set  his  afiections,  and  this  lady  had 
])romised  to  present  him  to  Anne  of  Austria.  The 
fathers  honest  boldness  put  a  stop  to  the  son's  in- 
tended servility,  and  Scarron  lamented  his  fate  in  a 
letter  to  Pellisson : 

"U  iiiille  ecus,  j):ir  niallu'iir  ivlranfiies, 
Quo  vous  poiivicz  iii't'par^'ncr  do  i)(?c'li(?s! 
Quand   nil   valil   mo  ilil,  tri-iiililaiU  et  have, 
Nous  u'avoiis   plus  dv  liucius  dans  la  cave 
Que  pour  allcr  jiisqu'a  demain  matin, 
Je  poste  alnrs  sur  mon  cliien  de  destin, 
iSur  le  grand  froid,  sur  Ic  hois  de  hi  grove, 
Qu'on  vend  hi  clier,  ct  qui  si-tot  s'aehove. 
,Ie  jiiro  alors,  ct  inome  je  in^dis 
IH"  raction  di'  iiioii  pore  efourdi, 
(^uand  sans  snngcr  a  cc  qji'il  allail  faire 
II  nrohaiiclia  sous  tin  astre  contraire, 
Et  m'aclu'va  par  tin  diseniirs  niandit 
(^ii'il  lit  dopuis  sur  iin  rortain  odit.'' 

The  fatlu'r  died  in  exile:  his  second  uife  had  spent 
tlie  greater  [lai't  of  tlie  son's  fortune,  and  seciintl  the 
rest  for  her  own  children.  Scarnm  was  left  with  a 
mere  pittance,  ami.  to  complete  his  troubles,  was  in- 
volved  in  a  lawsuit   about  the  projierty.      The  cripple. 


37S  PRESENTED  AT  COURT. 

Vvitli  his  usual  impudence,  resolved  to  plead  liis  own 
cause,  and  did  it  only  too  well ;  he  made  the  judges 
laugh  so  loud  that  they  took  the  whole  thing  to  be  a 
fiirce  on  his  part,  and  gave — most  ungratefully — judg- 
ment against  him. 

Glorious  days  were  those  for  the  penniless — halcyon 
days  for  the  toady  and  the  sycophant.  There  was  still 
much  of  the  old  oriental  munificence  about  the  court, 
and  sovereigns  like  Mazarin  and  Louis  XIV.  granted 
pensions  for  a  copy  of  flattering  verses,  or  gave  away 
places  as  the  reward  of  a  judicious  speech.  Sinecures 
were  legion,  yet  to  many  a  holder  they  Avere  no  sine- 
cures at  all,  for  they  entailed  constant  servility  and  a 
complete  abdication  of  all  freedom  of  opinion. 

Scarrou  was  nothing  more  than  a  merry  buffoon. 
Many  another  man  has  gained  a  name  for  his  mirth, 
but  most  of  them  have  been  at  least  independent. 
Scarron  seems  to  have  cared  for  nothinii;  that  was  hon- 
orable  or  dignified.  lie  laughed  at  everything  l)ut 
money,  and  at  that  he  smiled,  though  it  is  only  fair  to 
say  that  he  was  never  avaricious,  but  only  cared  for 
ease  and  a  little  luxury. 

When  Richelieu  died,  and  the  gentler  but  more 
subtle  Mazarin  mounted  liis  thi"one,  Madaiiie  de 
Ilautefort  made  aiiotlier  attempt  to  present  her  jiroti'je 
to  tlic  (|Heeii,  and  this  time  succeeded.  Aiiuc  <•("  Aus- 
ti'ia  had  heard  of  the  (juaint  little  m;\n  who  could  laugli 
over  !i  lawsuit  in  wliicli  liis  wlmlc  roriiiiK'  was  staked, 
and    received    liini    uraeioiisly.        lie    begged   loi"  some 


TIIK  OFKICK  OK  TIIK  QUEP:N'.S   PATIKNT.      ;)70 

pliU'c  to  support  liiiii.  AVliMt  could  he  do?  Wliiit  was 
lie  lit  for?  ""  iS'otliiiig,  your  Majesty,  luit  the  iinjiort- 
aiit  oliicc  of  The  Queen's  Patient;  for  that  I  am  fully 
(juaiified."  Anne  smiled,  and  Scarron  from  that  time 
styled  himself  "  par  la  <;race  de  Dieu,  le  malade  de  la 
Ixeiiie,"  But  there  Avas  no  stipend  attacheil  to  this 
novel  office.  Mazarin  procured  him  a  pension  of  500 
crowns.  lie  was  then  puhlishing  his  "  Typhon,  or  the 
Gigantomachy,"  and  dedicated  it  to  the  cardinal,  with 
an  adulatory  sonnet.  He  forwarded  the  great  man  a 
splcinlidly  hound  copy,  wliieh  was  accepted  with  noth- 
ing nioi'e  than  thanks.  In  a  rage  the  author  suppressed 
the  soiniet  and  substituted  a  satire.  This  piece  was 
bitterly  cutting,  and  terribly  true.  It  galled  Mazarin 
to  the  heart,  and  he  was  undignified  cnoun;li  to  reveno;c 
himself  by  cancelling  the  poor  little  pension  of  i!GO  per 
annum  whicli  had  previously  been  granted  to  the  writer. 
IScarron  having  lost  his  pension,  soon  afterwards  asked 
for  an  abbey,  but  Avas  refused.  '"  Then  give  me,"  said 
he,  "  a  simple  benefice,  so  simple,  indeed,  that  all  its 
duties  will  be  comprised  in  believing  in  God."  But 
Scarron  had  tlie  satisfaction  of  gaining  a  great  name 
among  the  cardinal's  many  enemies,  and  with  none 
more  so  than  De  Ivetz,  the  coadjuteur^  to  the  Arch- 
bishoj)  of  Baris.  and  alrcaily  deeply  implicated  in  the 
Fromle  mo\ cmeiit.  To  insure  the  l'a\<ir  of  this  i"isin<i 
man.  iSearron  determined  to  dedicate  to  him  a  work  he 
was  just    about    to    publish,    and    on    wliirh    he    justly 

'  Coddjuteur. — A  high  ofliee  in  the  rluiuli  of  Koiue. 


380  SCARROX'S  WRITIXGS. 

prided  himself  as  l)y  far  liis  best.  This  was  the 
"Roman  Comique,"  the  only  one  of  his  productions 
■\vhieh  is  still  read.  That  it  should  be  rea<l,  I  can 
quite  understand,  on  account  not  only  of  the  ease  of  its 
style,  but  of  the  ingenuity  of  its  improbable  plots,  the 
truth  of  the  characters,  and  the  charmina:  bits  of  satire 
which  are  found  here  and  there,  like  gems  amid  a  mass 
of  mere  fun.  The  scene  is  laid  at  Mans,  tlie  town  in 
which  tlie  author  had  himself  perpetrated  his  chief  fol- 
lies ;  and  many  of  the  characters  Avere  probably  drawn 
from  life,  while  it  is  likely  enough  that  some  of  the 
stories  were  taken  from  facts  which  had  there  come  to 
his  knowledge.  As  in  many  of  the  romances  of  th.-it 
age,  a  number  of  episodes  are  introduced  into  the  main 
storv,  Avhich  consists  of  the  ndventures  of  a  strolling 
company.  These  are  mainly  amatory,  and  all  indel- 
icate, while  some  arc  as  coarse  as  anything  in  P'rench 
literature.  Scarron  liad  little  of  the  clear  wit  of  Ralie- 
lais  to  atone  for  this  ;  but  he  makes  up  for  it,  in  a 
measure,  by  the  utter  absurdity  of  some  of  his  iiu-i- 
dents.  Not  the  least  curious  part  of  the  book  is  the 
Prefii'ce,  in  which  lie  gives  a  description  of  himself,  in 
order  to  contradict,  as  he  affirms,  the  extravagant  I'e- 
ports  circulated  about  him,  to  the  effect  that  he  Avas 
set  upon  a  table,  in  a  cage,  (tr  that  his  hat  was  fast- 
ened to  the  ceiling  by  a  pulley,  that  he  might  ''jilnck 
it  M])  or  let  it  down,  to  do  compliment  to  a  IViciid, 
who  h(»n(»reil  liini  with  a  visit."  '^I^his  descriplioii  is 
a    toleralde   sitecimen  (d"  his  stvle,  and  we  cive   it    in 


scAin;nN's  DKscuii'i'iox /)!    iiimski;f.      n.si 

the   (in:iiiit   l-iii^na;L^t'  of  mii   olil  translatidii,  |iiililislicil 
in    1711  :— 

''  I  am  past  thirty,  as  tlimi  niay'st  sec  by  tiie  l>ack 
of  my  Chaif.  if  I  live  to  !)(>  forty,  I  sliall  acM  tlic 
Lord  knows  Jiow  many  Misfortunes  to  tliosc  I  have 
already  sulferi'd  for  these  ei^i^ht  or  nine  Years  jiast. 
There  was  a  Time  wlieii  my  Stature  was  not  to  be 
found  fault  with,  tho"  now  'tis  of  the  smallest.  My 
iSiekness  has  taken  me  shorter  by  a  Foot.  My  Head 
is  somewhat  too  big,  considering  my  Height;  and  my 
Face  is  full  enough,  in  all  Conscience,  for  one  that 
carries  such  a  Skeleton  of  a  Body  about  him.  T 
have  Hair  enouirh  on  mv  Head  not  to  stand  in  need 
of  a  Peruke;  and  'tis  gray,  too,  in  spite  of  the 
Proverb.  My  Sight  is  good  enough,  tho'  my  Eyes 
ai'c  large;  they  are  of  a  l)lu('  Coloi*,  and  one  of  them 
is  sunk  deeper  into  my  Head  tliaii  the  other,  whieh 
was  occasion'd  by  my  leaning  on  that  Side.  My  Nose 
is  well  enough  mounted.  i\Iy  Teeth,  Avhich  in  the  Days 
of  Yore  look'd  like  a.  Row  of  square  Pearl,  are  now  of 
an  Ashen  Color;  and  in  a  few  Years  more,  will  have 
the  Complexion  of  a  Small-coal  Man's  Saturday  Shirt. 
I  have  lost  one  Tooth  aiul  a  half  on  the  left  Side,  and 
tw'o  and  a  half  precisely  on  the  right :  and  I  have  two 
more  that  stand  somewhat  out  of  their  Ranks.  My 
Legs  and  Thighs,  in  the  first  place,  compose  an  obtuse 
Angle,  then  a  right  one,  and  lastly  an  acute.  ^ly 
Thighs  and  Body  make  another:  and  my  Head,  leaning 
perpetually  over  my  Belly,  I  fancy  makes  nn^  not  very 


382  lilPROVIDENCE   AND  SERVILITY. 

tinlike  tlie  Letter  Z.  My  Arms  arc  sliortened,  as  avcII 
as  my  Legs  ;  and  my  Fingers  as  well  as  my  Arms.  In 
short,  I  am  a  living  Epitome  of  human  Misery.  This, 
as  near  as  I  can  give  it,  is  my  Shape.  Since  I  am  got 
so  far,  I  will  e'en  tell  thee  something  of  ray  Humor. 
Under  the  Rose,  be  it  spoken,  Courteous  Reader,  1  do 
this  only  to  swell  the  Bulk  of  my  Book,  at  the  Recjuest 
of  the  Bookseller — the  poor  Dog,  it  seems,  being  afraid 
he  should  be  a  loser  by  this  Impression,  if  he  did  not 
give  the  Buyer  enough  for  his  ]Money." 

This  allusion  to  the  publisher  reminds  us  that,  on 
the  suppression  of  his  pension — on  hearing  of  which 
Scarron  only  said,  "I  should  like,  then,  to  suppress 
myself" — he  had  to  live  on  the  profits  of  his  works. 
In  later  days  it  Avas  Madame  Scarron  herself  who  often 
carried  them  to  the  bookseller's,  when  there  was  not  a 
penny  in  the  house.  The  publisher  was  Quinct,  and 
the  merry  wit,  when  asked  whence  he  drew  his  income, 
used  to  reply  with  mock  haughtiness,  "  De  mon  INIar- 
quisat  do  Quinet."  Ilis  comedies,  which  have  been 
described  as  mere  burlesques — I  confess  I  have  never 
read  them,  and  hoped  to  be  al)Solved — were  successful 
enough,  and  if  Scarron  had  known  how  to  keep  what 
he  made,  he  might  sooner  or  later  have  been  in  easy 
circumstances.  He  knew  neither  that  nor  any  other 
art  of  self-restraint,  and,  therefore,  was  in  perpetual 
vicissitudes  of  riches  and  penury.  At  one  time  he 
could  afford  to  dedicate  a  piece  to  his    sister's  grey- 


THE  SOCIKTY    AT  SCAUItON'S.  .3.S:^> 

lioiiml,  at  anotlicr  lie*  av;is  servile  in  his  iidilress  to  some 
prince  or  <lukc. 

In  the  hitter  spirit,  li<'  Imnilihil  himself  hefore 
Mazinin.  in  spite  of  the  pul)lieation  of  his  ''  Mazariii- 
ade,"  and  was,  iis  he  niiudit  liavc  expected,  repulsed. 
He  tlien  tiirnctl  to  Fou(|uet,  the  new  Surintc  nd.int  de 
Finances,  who  was  liberal  enoui^h  with  the  public 
money,  which  he  so  freely  embezzled,  and  extracted 
from  liim  a  pension  of  IGOO  francs  (about  £G4).  In 
one  Avay  or  another,  he  got  back  a  part  of  the  property 
his  step-mother  had  alienated  from  him,  and  obtained  a 
prebend  in  the  diocese  of  Mans,  wliieh  made  u[)  his 
income  to  something  more  respectable. 

He  Avas  now  a1)le  to  indulii-e  to  the  utmost  his  love 
of  society.  In  his  apartment,  in  tlie  TJue  St.  Louis, 
he  received  all  the  leaders  of  the  Fronde,  heaile(l  bv 
De  lletz,  and  bringing  with  them  their  pasquinades 
on  Mazarin,  whicth  tlu'  easy  Italian  read  and  laughed 
at  and  pretended  to  heed  not  at  all.  Politics,  however, 
was  not  the  staple  of  the  conversation  at  Scarron's.  He 
Avas  visited  as  a  curiosity,  as  a  clever  buffoon,  and  those 
who  came  to  see,  remained  to  laugh.  He  kept  them  all 
alive  by  his  coarse,  easy,  impudent  wit ;  in  which  there 
was  more  vulgarity  and  dirtiness  than  ill-nature,  lie 
had  a  fund  of  hon-liommie,  which  set  his  visitors  at  their 
ease,  for  no  one  was  afraid  of  being  bitten  by  the 
chained  dog  they  came  to  pat.  His  salon  became 
famous;  and  tlie  admission  to  it  was  a  diploma  of 
wit.      Ho  kept  out  all   the   dull,   and    ignored  all  the 


384  SCAREON'S  LADY   FRIENDS. 

simply  great.     Any  man  "wlio  could  say  a  good  tiling, 

tell  a  good  story,  write  a  good  lampoon,  or  mimic  a 

fool,  "vvas  a  Avelcome  guest.     Wits  mingled  with  pedants, 

courtiers  with  j^oets.     Abbes  and  gay  women  were  at 

home  in  the  easy  society  of  the  cripple,  and  circulated 

freely  round  his  dumb-waiter. 

The  ladies  of  the  party  were  not  the  most  respectable 

in  Paris,  yet  some  Avho  were  models  of  virtue  met  there, 

without  a  shudder,  many  others  who  were  patterns  of 

vice.      Ninon  de  I'Enclos — then  youno; — thouo-h   age 

made  no  alteration  in  her — and  already  slaying  her 

scores,   and  ruining  her  liundreds  of  admirers,  there 

met  Madame  de  Sevigne,  the  most  i-espectable,  as  well 

as   tlie   most   a";reeable  woman  of  that  ao;e.      Made- 
ira o 

moiselle  de  Scudery,  leaving,  for  the  time,  lier  twelve- 
volume  romance  about  Cyrus  and  Ibrahim,  led  on  a 
troop  of  jMoliere's  Pr^cieuses  Ridicules,  and  here  re- 
cited ]icr  verses,  and  talked  pedantically  to  Pellisson, 
the  ugliest  man  in  Paris,  of  whom  Boilcau  wrote : 

"L'or  meme  a,  Pellisson  donne  un  teiiit  de  beaute." 

Then  there  was  Madame  de  la  Sabliere,  who  was  as 
masculine  as  her  husband  the  marquis  was  effeminate ; 
tlie  Duchesse  de  Lesdiguieres,  who  Avas  so  anxious  to  be 
thought  a  wit  tliat  slie  employed  the  Chevalier  de  M^re 
to  make  her  one  ;  and  the  Comtesse  de  la  Suze,  a  clever 
but  foolish  woman. 

The  men  were  poets,  courtiers,  nnd  pedants.    Menage 
with    his    tiresome  memory,    Monti-cnil    and    i\I;irigni 


THE  WITTY  CONVERSATION.  38o 

the  soiig-writcrs,  the  elogiint  Dc  Graminont,  TuroiiMo, 
Coligiii,  the  galhint  Abbe  Tetu,  and  many  another 
celebrity,  thronged  the  rooms  where  Scarron  sat  in  his 
furious  ■wheelbarrow. 

The  conversation  Avas  decidedly  light ;  often,  indeed, 
obscene,  in  spite  of  the  presence  of  ladies ;  but  always 
witty.  The  hostility  of  Scarron  to  tlie  reigning  car- 
dinal was  a  great  recommendation,  and  when  all  else 
flagged,  or  the  cripple  had  an  unusually  sharp  attack, 
he  had  but  to  start  with  a  line  of  his  "  Mazarinadc," 
and  out  came  a  fresh  lampoon,  a  new  caricature,  or 
fresh  rounds  of  wit  fired  off  at  the  Italian  from  the 
well-filled  cartridge-boxes  of  the  guests,  many  of  whom 
kept  their  mots  ready  made  up  for  discharge. 

But  a  change  came  over  the  spirit  of  the  paralytic's 

dream.      In  the  Rue   St.   Louis,   close  to   Scarron's, 

lived  a  certain  INIadame  Neuillant,  who  visited  him  as 

a  neighbor,  and  one  day  excited  his  curiosity  by  the 

romantic  history  of  a  mother  and  daughter,  Avho  had 

long  lived  in  Martinique,  who  had  been  ruined  by  the 

extravagance  and  follies  of  a  reprobate  husband  and 

father;   and  were  now  living  in  great   poverty — the 

daughter  being  supported  by  Madame  de  Neuillant 

herself.     The  good-natured  cripple  was  touched  by  this 

story,  and  begged  liis  neighbor  to  bring  the  unhappy 

ladies  to  one  of  his  parties.     The  evening  came ;  tlic 

abb6  was,  as  usual,  surrounded  by  a  circle  of  lady  wits, 

dressed  in  the  last  fashions,  flaunting  their  fans,  and 

laughing  merrily  at  his  sallies.     INIadame  de  Neuillant 
Vol.   I.— 2j 


386  FEANgOISE  D'AUBIGNE'S  DEBUT. 

was  announced,  and  entered,  followed  by  a  simply- 
dressed  lady,  with  the  melancholy  face  of  one  broken- 
down  by  misfortunes,  and  a  pretty  girl  of  fifteen.  The 
contrast  between  the  new-comers  and  the  fashionable 
habituecs  around  him  at  once  struck  the  abbe.  The 
girl  was  not  only  badly,  but  even  shabbily  dressed,  and 
the  shortness  of  her  gown  shoAved  that  she  had  grown 
out  of  it,  and  could  not  afford  a  new  one.  The  grayides 
dames  turned  upon  her  their  eye-glasses,  and  whispered 
comments  behind  their  fans.  She  was  very  pretty, 
they  said,  very  interesting,  elegant,  lady-like,  and  so 
on  ;  but,  j^arbleii !  how  shamefully  mal  mise  !  The  new- 
comers were  led  up  to  the  cripple's  dumb-waiter,  and 
the  grandes  dames  drew  back  their  ample  petticoats  as 
they  passed.  The  young  girl  was  overcome  with  shame ; 
their  whispers  reached  her ;  she  cast  down  her  pretty 
eyes,  and  growing  more  and  more  confused,  she  could 
bear  it  no  lono;er,  and  burst  into  tears.  The  abbe  and 
his  guests  were  touched  by  her  shyness,  and  endeavored 
to  restore  her  confidence.  Scarron  himself  leant  over, 
and  whispered  a  few  kind  words  in  her  car  ;  than  break- 
ing out  into  some  happy  pleasantry,  he  gave  her  time 
to  recover  her  composure.  Such  was  the  first  d^hut 
in  Parisian  society  of  Franfoise  d'Aubigne,  who  was 
destined,  as  Madame  Scarron,  to  be  afterwards  one 
of  its  leaders,  and,  as  Madame  de  Maintenon,  to  be 
its  ruler. 

Some  peo])lc  are  cursed  with  bad  sons — some  with 
erring  daughters.     Fran^oisc  d'Aubigne  was  long  the 


THE  SAD  ST(JKY   OF    LA    BELLE  INDIENNE.      o87 


victim  of  :i  wicked  father.  Constans  d'Aubignd  be- 
longed to  an  old  and  lionorable  family,  and  was  the 
son  of  that  famous  oM  Huguenot  general,  Theodore- 
Agrippa  d'Aubigne,  -who  fought  for  a  long  time  under 
Henry  of  Navarre,  and  in  his  old  age  wrote  the  history 
of  his  times.  To  counterbalance  this  distinction,  the 
son  Constans  brought  all  the  discredit  he  could  on  the 
family.  After  a  reckless  life,  in  which  he  scjuandered 
his  patrimony,  he  married  a  rich  widow,  and  then,  it 
is  said,  contrived  to  put  her  out  of  the  way.  He  was 
-ir-prisoned  as  a  murderer,  but  acquitted  for  want  of 
evidence.  The  story  goes,  that  he  was  liberated  by 
the  daughter  of  the  governor  of  the  jail,  Avliom  he  had 
seduced  in  the  prison,  and  whom  he  married  Avhen  free. 
He  souo-ht  to  retrieve  his  fortune  in  the  island  of  ]Mar- 
tinique,  ill-treated  his  wife,  and  eventually  ran  away, 
and  left  her  and  her  children  to  their  fate.  They  fol- 
lowed him  to  France,  and  found  him  again  incarcer- 
ated. Madame  d'Aubignd  was  foolishly  fond  of  her 
good-for-nothing  spouse,  and  lived  Avith  him  in  his  cell, 
where  the  little  Frangoise,  who  had  been  born  in  prison, 
was  now  educated. 

Rescued  from  starvation  by  a  worthy  Huguenot 
aunt,  Madame  de  Vilette,  the  little  girl  was  brought 
up  as  a  Protestant,  and  a  very  staunch  one  she  proved 
for  a  time.  But  ^ladame  d'Aubigne,  who  was  a 
Romanist,  would  not  allow  her  to  remain  long  under 
the  Calvinist  lady's  protection,  and  sent  her  to  be  con- 
verted by  her  godmother,  the  i\Iadame  de   Neuillant 


388  SCAERON  IN  LOVE. 

above  mentioned.  This  Avoman,  who  was  as  merciless 
as  a  woman  can  be,  literally  broke  her  into  Roman- 
ism, treated  her  like  a  servant,  made  her  groom  the 
horses  and  comb  the  maid's  hair,  and  when  all  these 
efforts  failed,  sent  her  to  a  convent  to  be  finished  off. 
The  nuns  did  by  specious  reasoning  what  had  been 
begun  by  persecution,  and  young  Fran9oise,  at  the 
time  she  was  introduced  to  Scarron,  was  a  highly  re- 
spectable member  of  "the  only  true  church." 

Madame  d'Aubignd  Avas  at  this  time  supporting  her- 
self by  needlework.  Her  sad  story  won  the  sympathy 
of  Scarron's  guests,  who  united  to  relieve  her  wants. 
La  belle  Indienne,  as  the  cripple  styled  her,  soon  be- 
came a  favorite  at  his  parties,  and  lost  her  shyness  by 
degrees.  Ninon  de  I'Enclos,  who  did  not  want  heart, 
took  her  by  the  hand,  and  a  friendship  thus  com- 
menced between  that  inveterate  La'is  and  the  future 
wife  of  Louis  XIV.  Avhich  lasted  till  death. 

The  beauty  of  Frangoise  soon  brought  her  many 
admirers,  among  whom  was  even  one  of  Ninon's  slaves ; 
but  as  marriage  was  not  the  object  of  those  attentions, 
and  the  young  girl  would  not  relinquish  her  virtue, 
she  remained  for  some  time  unmarried,  but  respectable. 
Scarn^i  was  particularly  fond  of  her,  and  well  knew 
that,  portionless  as  she  Avas,  the  poor  girl  would  have 
but  little  chance  of  makino;  a  match.  TTis  kindness 
touched  her,  his  wit  charmed  her;  she  pitied  his  in- 
firmities, and  as  his  neighbor,  frequently  saw  and  tried 
to  console  him.     On  the  otlier  hand,  the  cripple,  though 


MATKIMONIAL   CONSIDERATION.  389 

forty  years  old,  iiml  in  a  state  of  hcaltli  uliicli  it  is 
impossible  to  describe,  fell  positively  in  \o\v  willi  the 
young  girl,  ulio  alone  of  nil  the  ladies  Avho  visited  him 
combined  wit  with  perfect  modesty.  He  pitied  her 
destitution.  There  was  mutual  pity,  and  we  all  know 
what  passion  that  feeling  is  akin  to. 

Still,  for  a  paralytic,  utterly  unfit  for  marriage  in 
any  point  of  view,  to  ofler  it  to  a  beautiful  young  girl, 
would  have  seemed  ridiculous,  if  not  unpardonable. 
But  let  us  take  into  account  the  difference  in  ideas  of 
matrimony  between  ourselves  and  the  French.  We 
must  remember  that  marriage  has  always  been  re- 
garded among  our  neighbors  as  a  contract  for  mutual 
benefit,  into  which  the  consideration  of  money  of 
necessity  entered  largely.  It  is  true  that  some  qual- 
ties  are  taken  as  e(|uivalents  for  actual  cash  :  thus,  if 
a  young  man  has  a  straight  and  well-cut  nose  he  may 
sell  himself  at  a  higher  j)rice  than  a  young  man  there 
Avitli  the  hideous  pug;  if  a  girl  is  beautiful,  the  mar- 
quis will  1)0  content  with  some  thousands  of  francs  less 
for  her  dower  tli:in  if  her  hair  were  red  or  her  com- 
plexion irreclaimably  brown.  If  Julie  has  a  pretty 
foot,  a  svelte  waist,  and  can  play  the  piano  thunder- 
ingly,  or  sing  in  the  charmingest  soprana,  her  ten 
thousand  francs  are  quite  as  acceptable  as  those  of 
stout,  awkward,  glum-fiiced  Jeannette.  The  faultless 
boots  and  yelloAV  kids  of  young  Adolphe  counterbalance 
the  somewhat  apocryphal  vicomte  of  ijl-kempt  and  ill- 
attired  Ilenii. 


390  "AN  OFFER  OF  MARRIAGE." 

But  then  there  must  be  some  fortune.  A  French- 
man is  so  much  in  the  habit  of  expecting  it,  that  he 
thinks  it  ahnost  a  crime  to  fall  in  love  where  there  is 
none.  Franjoise,  pretty,  clever,  agreeable  as  she  was, 
was  penniless,  and  even  worse,  she  was  the  daughter 
of  a  man  who  had  been  imprisoned  on  suspicion  of 
murder,  and  a  woman  who  had  gained  her  livelihood 
by  needlework.  All  these  considerations  made  the 
fancy  of  the  merry  abbe  less  ridiculous,  and  Fran- 
poise  herself,  being  sufficiently  versed  in  the  ways  of 
the  world  to  understand  the  disadvantage  under  which 
she  labored,  was  less  amazed  and  disgusted  than  another 
girl  might  have  been,  when,  in  due  course,  the  cripple 
offered  her  himself  and  his  dumb-waiter.  He  had  little 
more  to  give — his  pension,  a  tiny  income  from  his  pre- 
bend and  his  Marquisat  de  Quinet. 

The  offer  of  the  little  man  was  not  so  amusing  as 
other  episodes  of  his  life.  He  went  honestly  to  work  ; 
represented  to  her  what  a  sad  lot  would  hers  be  if 
Madame  de  Neuillant  died,  and  what  were  the  tempta- 
tions of  beauty  without  a  penny.  His  arguments  were 
more  to  the  point  than  delicate,  and  he  talked  to  the 
young  girl  as  if  she  was  a  woman  of  the  world.  Still, 
she  accepted  him,  cripple  as  he  was. 

Madame  de  Neuillant  made  no  objection,  for  she  was 
only  too  glad  to  be  rid  of  a  beauty  who  ate  and  drank, 
but  did  not  marry. 

On  the  making  of  the  contract,  Scarron's  fun  re- 
vived.    When    asked    by    the    notary    what    was    the 


"SCAKllON'S  WIFE  WILL  LIVJO  FOR  EVER."     391 

young  lady's  fortune,  he  replied :  "  Four  louis,  two 
large  wicked  eyes,  one  fine  figure,  oue  jmir  of  good 
hands,  and  lots  of  mind."  "And  what  do  you  give 
her?"  asked  the  lawyer. — "  Immortality,"  replied  lie, 
with  the  air  of  a  bombastic  poet.  "  The  names  of  the 
wives  of  kin<i;s  die  with  them — that  of  Scarron's  wife 
■will  live  for  ever  !" 

His  marriage  obliged  him  to  give  up  his  canonry, 
which  he  sold  to  Menage's  man-servant,  a  little  bit  of 
simony  whirh  was  not  even  noticed  in  those  days.  It 
is  amusing  to  find  a  man  who  laughed  at  all  religion, 
insisting  that  his  wife  shouhl  make  a  formal  avowal  of 
the  Romish  faith.  Of  the  character  of  this  marriage 
we  need  say  no  more  than  that  Scarron  had  at  that 
time  the  use  of  no  more  than  his  eyes,  tongue,  and 
hands.  Yet  such  was  then,  as  now,  the  idea  of  matri- 
mony in  France,  that  the  young  lady's  friends  con- 
sidered her  fortunate. 

Scarron  in  love  was  a  picture  which  amazed  and 
amused  the  Avhole  society  of  Paris,  but  Scarron  mar- 
ricil  was  still  more  curious.  The  queen,  when  she 
heard  of  it,  said  tliat  Fran§oise  would  be  nothing 
but  a  useless  ])it  of  furniture  in  liis  liouse.  She 
proved  not  only  the  most  useful  appendage  he  could 
have,  but  the  salvation  alike  of  his  soul  and  bis 
reputation.  The  woman  who  charmed  Louis  XIV. 
by  her  good  sense,  had  enough  of  it  to  see  Scarron's 
faults,  and  ])rided  herself  on  reforming  him  as  far  as 
it  was  possible.      Her  husband  had  hitherto  been  the 


392  PETITS  SOUPEES. 

great  Nestor  of  indelicacy,  and  when  he  was  induced 
to  give  it  up,  the  rest  followed  his  example.  Madame 
Scarron  checked  the  license  of  the  abbe's  conversation, 
and  even  worked  a  beneficial  change  in  his  mind. 

The  joviality  of  their  parties  still  continued.  Scar- 
ron had  always  been  famous  for  his  petits  soupers,  the 
fashion  of  which  he  introduced,  but  as  his  poverty 
would  not  allow  him  to  give  them  in  proper  style, 
his  friends  made  a  pic-nic  of  it,  and  each  one  either 
brought  or  sent  his  own  dish  of  ragout,  or  whatever 
it  might  be,  and  his  OAvn  bottle  of  wine.  This  does 
not  seem  to  have  been  the  case  after  the  marriage, 
however ;  for  it  is  related  as  a  proof  of  Madame 
Scarron 's  conversational  powers,  that,  when,  one  even- 
ing a  poorer  supper  than  usual  Avas  served,  the  waiter 
whispered  in  her  ear,  "  Tell  them  another  story,  Ma- 
dame, if  you  please,  for  we  have  no  joint  to-night." 
Still  both  guests  and  host  could  well  afford  to  dispense 
with  the  coarseness  of  the  cripple's  talk,  which  might 
raise  a  laugh,  but  must  sometimes  have  caused  disgust, 
and  the  young  wife  of  sixteen  succeeded  in  making 
him  purer  both  in  his  conversation  and  his  writings. 

The  household  she  entered  was  indeed  a  villainous 
one.  Scarron  rather  gloried  in  his  early  delinquencies, 
and,  to  add  to  this,  his  two  sisters  had  characters  far 
from  estimable.  One  of  them  had  been  maid  of  honor 
to  the  Princess  do  Conti,  but  had  given  up  her  a])point- 
ment  to  become  the  mistress  of  the  Due  de  Tremcs. 
Tlie  lauu'lKM-  laniilied  even  at  his  sister's  dishonor,  and 


tup:  LAU(iiii:K'.s  deatii-];];i).  00:> 

allowed  her  to  live  in  the  same  house  on  a  hi;^lier  ctafje. 
AVhen,  on  one  occasion,  some  one  tallril  on  him  to  solicit 
the  lady's  interest  with  the  duke,  he  coolly  said,  "  You 
are  mistaken ;  it  is  not  I  who  know  the  duke ;  go  up 
to  the  next  storey."  The  offspring  of  this  connection 
he  styled  "■  his  nephews  after  the  fashion  of  the  Marais." 
rran9oise  did  her  hest  to  reclaim  this  sister  and  to  con- 
ceal her  shame,  but  the  laughing  abbe  made  no  secret 
of  it. 

But  the  laugher  Avas  approaching  his  end.  His 
attacks  became  more  and  more  violent :  still  he 
hui<rlied  at  them.  Once  he  was  seized  with  a  terrible 
choking  liiccu}),  which  threatened  to  suffocate  him. 
The  first  moment  he  could  speak  he  cried,  "  If  I  get 
well,  111  write  a  satire  on  the  hiccup."  The  priests 
came  about  him,  and  his  wife  did  what  she  could  to 
brin";  him  to  a  sense  of  his  future  danger.  He  hiuirhed 
at  the  priests  and  at  his  wife's  fears.  She  sjjoke  of 
hell.  "•  If  there  is  such  a  place,"  he  answered,  "  it 
w'on't  be  for  me,  for  without  you  I  must  have  had  my 
lu'U  ill  this  life."  The  priests  told  him,  by  way  of 
consolation,  tliat  "  God  had  visited  him  more  than 
anv  man." — "  lie  does  me  too  much  honor,"  answered 
the  mocker.  "You  should  give  him  thanks,"  urged 
the  ecclesiastic.  "  I  can't  see  for  what,"  was  the  shame- 
less answer. 

On  his  death-bed  he  parodied  a  will,  leaving  to  Cor- 
neille  "  two  hundred  pounds  of  patience ;  to  Boileau 
(witli  wliuiii  he  luul  a  long  feud),  the  gangrene;  and  to 


394  SCAKEON'S  LAST  MOMENTS. 

the  Academy,  the  power  to  alter  the  French  hinguage 
as  they  liked."  His  legacy  in  verse  to  his  wife  is 
grossly  disgusting,  and  quite  unfit  for  quotation.  Yet 
he  loved  her  well,  avowed  that  his  chief  grief  in  dy- 
ing was  the  necessity  of  leaving  her,  and  begged  her 
to  remember  him  sometimes,  and  to  lead  a  virtuous 
life. 

His  last  moments  were  as  jovial  as  any.  When  he 
savr'  his  friends  weeping  around  him  he  shook  his  head 
and  cried,  "  I  shall  never  make  you  weep  as  much  as  I 
have  made  you  laugh."  A  little  later  a  softer  thought 
of  hope  came  across  him.  "  No  more  sleeplessness,  no 
more  gout,"  he  murmured;  "the  Queen's  patient  will 
be  well  at  last."  At  length  the  laugher  was  sobered. 
In  the  presence  of  death,  at  the  gates  of  a  ncAV  world, 
he  muttered,  half  afraid,  "■  I  never  thought  it  was  so 
easy  to  laugh  at  death,"  and  so  expired.  This  was  in 
October,  1660,  when  the  cripple  had  reached  the  age 
of  fifty. 

Thus  died  a  laugher.  It  is  unnecessary  here  to 
trace  the  story  of  his  widow's  strange  rise  to  be  the 
wife  of  a  kino;.  Scarron  was  no  honor  to  her,  and  in 
later  years  she  tried  to  forget  his  existence.  Boileau 
fell  into  disgrace  for  merely  mentioning  his  name  before 
the  king.  Yet  Scarron  was  in  many  respects  a  better 
man  than  Louis ;  and,  laugher  as  he  was,  he  had  a 
good  heart.  There  is  a  time  for  mirth  and  a  time 
for  mourning,  the  Preacher  tells  us.  Scarron  never 
learned  this  truth,  and  he  lauglied  too  much  and  too 


A    LKSSON    Foil   (iAY    AND   (IliAVK.  395 

lonir.      Yet    let    u.s    not    end    the    lauo;lier's    life    in 

sorrow : 

"  It  is  well  to  be  merry  and  wise,"  etc. 

Let  us  1)0  niorry  ns  the  poor  cripple,  "svho  bore  liis  suf- 
lrriiiii;s  so  ■well,  and  let  ns  l>e  Avise  too.  There  i.s  a 
lesson  for  <j;ay  an<l  grave  in  the  life  of  Scarron,  the 
laugher. 


END    OF    VOL.    I. 


I. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  LOS  ANGELES 

THE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 

This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below 


.iftt'tt 


MAR  zm,„, 

AUG  8  0  Ul79 


Form  L-t» 

25;rt-10.' 44(2101) 


THELIBSt\I^Y 

LOS  ANGELES 


DA 

485 

T3Bw 

1861 

v.l 


(T 


3  1158  00506  5825 


AA    000  386  620 


